


Beat 'Em to the Chase

by EmbraceableYou



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: American Character, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Harry Potter Next Generation, Multi, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Teenage Dorks, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 103,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmbraceableYou/pseuds/EmbraceableYou
Summary: James had always lacked tact, and Monty had always lacked patience. Neither of these traits bothered the other much until Gryffindor lost to Ravenclaw in the Great Quidditch Cup Disaster of 2019. At the start of their fifth year, however, newly minted Quidditch Captain James and prefect Monty were bound to form a bitter rivalry.Lysander really just wanted nothing to do it.
Relationships: James Sirius Potter/Original Female Character(s), Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 44





	1. The Newly Refined Monty Baird

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction in years, so if it's just horrible, let me know. I'm playing fairly fast and loose with canon, especially in later chapters. If that isn't your thing, this may not be the fic for you. Other than that, I hope you enjoy the tale of a few canon characters and a whole slew of OCs!

In a burst of smoke, the Hogwarts Express barreled through Platform 9 ¾, coming to an alarmingly abrupt (and particularly earsplitting) halt. Had Monty been paying attention to her surroundings, she would’ve heard it coming, thus preventing her from jumping several feet in the air and protecting her from a pair of third year Hufflepuffs giggling at her. Alas, that was not the case. With the modicum of dignity she had left, she adjusted her prefect badge on her sweater, a new nervous trait to compete with pushing her glasses up. The Hufflepuff pair straightened up at the badge’s gleam, knowing better than to irritate another house’s prefect on the very first day of the year.

At this, Monty smiled to herself. After last term’s Quidditch Cup upset, she would take any morsel of respect for her, even if it came from a place of mild fear. She internally recoiled. _You sound like a Slytherin._ She shook her head of the thought.

She had nothing against Slytherin house, unlike many other Gryffindors, but she simply didn’t see herself aligned with their traits. Ambition, maybe, but she didn’t exactly declare herself as Slytherin-adjacent. However, she had secretly begun to wish she actually were aligned with Slytherin or Hufflepuff, dreading all upcoming interactions with Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. She was certainly not in any hurry to spend time in the Gryffindor common room. Perhaps she’d befriend all first years. Who needed to go to Hogsmeade, anyway?

The rush of goodbyes around her snapped her back into reality again. She had probably spaced out this summer more times than her previous fifteen years combined. She suspected it had to do with the constant taunts from her brothers for the “assist in getting Ravenclaw the Quidditch Cup.” Three Quidditch stars would be too much for one family anyway, so it was in her best interest to quit regardless. In her (admittedly blurry) peripheral, she saw her younger brother give their mother one last parting hug before taking off for the nearest train door. Monty briefly considered whether she should turn and wave goodbye to her mother, but she thought it best to not. The likelihood of getting a wave back from mommy dearest was far less for Monty than it was for baby Joel. 

Monty held on tighter to her bag and stepped forward on the platform. Normally she sat with the Gryffindor team, and despite a full summer of ruminating over the subject, she had no backup plan. _Pick a random group of Hufflepuffs… or Slytherins... or look around for other prefects._ At the very least, she could take solace in knowing that her older brother had graduated and was no longer Head Boy. Fingers crossed that Head Boy and Head Girl would be Hufflepuff or Slytherin. She had really begun to fixate on becoming an honorary member of one of her now two preferred houses. 

Two younger boys ran in front of her in the train corridor, chasing each other with their wands drawn, nearly causing Monty to trip. The taller looked back, startled and slightly apologetic. Monty tapped her prefect badge in warning, causing the taller boy to push the shorter boy’s wand down with his free hand.

“Sorry!” the taller boy called, before continuing to rush down the halls with his friend. Monty was actually unsure if she had the power to take points away yet, supposing she’d find out in the prefect meeting. _Right, the prefect meeting!_ And she silently rejoiced, remembering she had a place to sit for the journey to Hogwarts.

“Oi, Baird!” A male voice came from inside a nearby compartment. She did not look his way. “Taking flying again with the first years?”

She ignored it to the best of her ability and tried to regain her usual devil-may-care composure. Still, she couldn’t resist the urge to adjust her glasses as she hurried to the back of the train.

Unlike the rest of the train, the last railcar was exclusive to prefects. It was not separated into smaller compartments, but rather had several rows of emerald velvet benches facing a large mahogany desk, like pews facing an altar.

Only a handful of prefects had already arrived. Jake Lien, one of the sixth year Gryffindor prefects glanced at her coldly. _So Gryffindor does hate me._ And that was honestly how she pictured the entirety of fifth year to go. Luckily enough for her, she recognized a fifth year Hufflepuff sitting across the compartment.

Sade Agrinya was the Hufflepuff Seeker, and easily the quickest Hogwarts had seen in recent years. She was tall, dark, and statuesque, often compared to the Venus de Milo by the more worldly muggleborn students. Each gleam of her prefect badge lit up the freckles of gold in her otherwise dark eyes. She was unanimously considered to be the most beautiful girl in their year, both envied and adored by many. She idly twirled a few of her dark braids in her fingers as she blew kisses out the window to her family, waiting for the train to depart. In Charms, Sade always went out of her way to ask Monty how her day was. It was no surprise that Sade would be prefect. 

“Mind if I sit next to you?” Monty’s voice felt foreign in her own mouth. Her vowels were slipping, even if she tried to ignore it.

“Monty!” Sade grinned. “I’m so pleased it’s you. My favorite Gryffindor.”

Monty was sure she’d say that to any Gryffindor she crossed paths with, save one or two.

“Do you know who your partner is?” Monty asked as she sat down.

“Calvin MacPherson,” she responded. “He wrote to tell me last week. He’ll be just brilliant, I think.”

Again, Monty felt certain that Sade would have been happy with anyone as her fellow Hufflepuff prefect. Certainly, any Hufflepuff boy would be thrilled to do rounds by her side. Monty wouldn’t blame any of them to line up to beg for the position.

Almost on cue, Calvin entered the compartment and sat in the row just behind them.

“How’re you both?” But it was more directed at Sade than Monty. The girls exchanged pleasant greetings with him.

Calvin was a generally mousy boy, but it was clear that a growth spurt was imminent. His arms had lengthened from the last time Monty had seen him, but his torso and legs had yet to catch up. As always, his mushroom brown hair lay limp against his forehead, nearly concealing his green eyes. _Or are they blue? I can’t tell._ It didn’t matter either way.

In the comfortable lull in conversation, Monty was able to really take in the enormity of the train car. She felt cheated that she had shoved into the tiny compartments all these years before her.

Prefects were streaming in now, and Monty’s anxiety over who her Gryffindor counterpart would be rushed back through her body, colder than the Great Lake. Monty had hoped this would be the year that Hogwarts decided against nepotism, but with the sheer percentage of war heroes’ descendants at the school, it was highly unlikely. In fact, she was floored that she got the prefect position at all over the Weasley legacy (despite actively lobbying for the position). It seemed more unlikely to her throughout the first half of summer, as she further considered how the Headmistress would absolutely expect her to throw parties in the prefect bathroom. With her track record, that would have been the year’s event-to-be, but she’d sworn to Professor Longbottom that she would be on her best behavior for the year if he recommended her for the position.

When Lysander Scamander walked through the door in all his snowy glory, she let out a massive sigh of relief. Out of the fifth year Gryffindors, Lysander cared about Quidditch the least, and would be the least likely to be rude to her. Sure enough, he smiled at her and came her way to sit down.

“You’re not a Weasley!” Lysander joked, and Monty couldn’t help but return his grin.

“And you’re not a Potter!” She prodded at his ribcage causing him to laugh and swat her hand away. “Although, I did beat two Weasleys out, and you only beat one Potter.”

“One Potter is easily worth two Weasleys. Besides, James is one full Potter and one half Weasley.”

Snowy was always the first word that came to mind when she thought of Lysander, perhaps because they had first met at age nine, when both their families were enjoying a lovely winter holiday in Godric’s Hollow. They had begun the snowball fight of the century (or so they imagined) in front of the church, while their brothers looked on in disdain. It was also likely due to his nearly pale, spotless complexion, crystal blue eyes, and nearly white hair that had grown out a considerable length past his shoulders since the end of last term. Snowy, yes, but not icy, as Lysander’s presence felt familiar and comfortable to all that met him.

The fifth year Ravenclaws entered together, already in conversation. The girl was Natalia Truitt, who Monty knew to be a fairly introverted muggleborn girl. She lived in the muggle part of town next to Montgomery Hall, so Monty would run into her here and there in the muggle library on school breaks. The boy was Lysander’s twin brother, Lorcan. Not snowy, no, but icy. 

Lysander looked up at Lorcan, looking as if he desperately hoped his brother would sit next to him. Instead, Lorcan breezed past him, not even bothering to make eye contact. Lysander stared at his lap.

“So,” Monty began. She rather hated tension. “We’re both avoiding Ravenclaw this year, then?” Lysander laughed somewhat weakly and nodded in agreement. Natalia looked back and smiled, prompting a wave from the Gryffindor pair. “Well, maybe we have one on our side.”

“I think the Head Girl is a Ravenclaw this year, so hopefully we’ll have two.”

“Prefects,” Jolie Waterford, a seventh year Ravenclaw, called out. “We are still waiting on a few stray prefects, but we are beginning the meeting in five minutes!” 

“I think you’re right about the Head Girl being Ravenclaw,” Monty whispered to Lysander. He laughed, stronger that time.

“Sorry, but do I detect a hint of the Minister’s English in your tone, Miss Baird?” And while he said it teasingly, the words tore a bit at the pit of her stomach. She felt her smile wilt for just a moment, before reconstructing it again.

“I normally live with my aunt in Colorado in summer,” she explained. “But my mom kept me in the Hall, so I was surrounded by the redcoats the whole break. I thought I’d hang around the tourist-y areas to chat with some Americans for accent optimization, but for some reason it was all Italians this summer.”

It was somewhat of a shock across the prestigious in Wizarding Britain when the darling eldest daughter of the Montgomery family had married an American muggle. Since the family’s return to Britain about seven years back, it seemed that her mother grew ashamed of the decision. The Montgomerys were not pureblood fanatics by any means, but with wealthy pureblood lineage came considerable perks and protections. Marrying a halfblood would have been decent, a muggleborn would be questionable, and a muggle was downright scandalous. In recent years, it seemed her mother engaged in less and less conversation about her father, culminating that year into no mention of him ever existing and a staunch refusal to allow her to visit her muggle side of the family in America. While this decision came from a slew of rationalisations, it was heavily in part to the annual summer event of Araminta Montgomery-Baird begging her daughter to practice her British accent. This year, she had simply taken more extreme measures of persuasion.

While other British pureblood families intermarried, the Montgomerys noticed that as the other purebloods inbred, there was an increase in mental instability, violence, and squib births. Beginning in the mid-1700s, the Montgomerys began a tradition of leaving Britain to marry purebloods in other countries. Since the pureblood pedigree across nations could not be confirmed, the Montgomerys were not included in the Sacred 28, which the family claimed to not care for anyway. However despite the vast array of cultural ancestry, the Montgomerys always sent their children to Hogwarts and considered themselves distinctly British.

But Monty didn’t see why she needed to lose her accent. She lived in America for longer than she lived in Britain, which was unusual for a Montgomery. _Next year, it will be dead even. The year after, you’ll be more Brit than Yank._ The absolute last thing she wanted to do was give into familiar pressure and adjust her accent to fit expectation. That would be cowardice, and Montgomery Baird was not a coward.

Of course her brothers didn’t understand. Her older brother, Finch, spent the entire summer before his first year perfecting his British accent, so no one would pick him out as different. For Finch, any difference was a bad difference. He could not comprehend that standing out could be a positive thing. Besides, the heir to Montgomery Hall must be presentable, and being the proud son of an American muggle was absolutely not presentable.

Her younger brother, Joel, was too young when they moved back to Britain and forgot his American accent, but it was highly likely that he would’ve chosen a similar path to Finch. Joel was far too focused on his popularity and would rather his peers focus on his athletic prowess than a glaringly obvious accent.

She had to give it to them, having an American accent certainly did put a target on her back for cheap jokes and pranks, often from the sharp tongue of James Potter. While in years past she took the jokes lightheartedly, she imagined that she would not be so generous in her reception anymore, least of all from James Potter.

The prefect meeting was not as long as Monty had expected. She was hoping it’d stretch out until their arrival, so she could put off seeing any other fifth year Gryffindors until they got in the Great Hall. In fact, the prefect meeting was quite short and quite dull. The duties were exactly what she had expected from the previous years of Finch raving about being prefect and later Head Boy. All she could do was pray that actually performing the duties would be more entertaining than listening to them.

“Before you go,” the Head Boy, a Slytherin by the name of Eros Farley, stopped the chatter that broke out among the prefects. “Please meet with all prefects of your year. We will not tolerate house division this year, especially among prefects.”

A wave of relief washed over Monty at the opportunity to prolong interaction with her own house. Lysander and Monty turned inward towards Sade and Calvin. From the corner of her eye, Monty watched Lysander tense up when Lorcan had Natalia sit in between them. The two Slytherin fifth years, Mariana Caticovas and Nadim Bahri, sat next to Calvin. 

“This looks like a solid group,” Nadim clapped his hands together in greeting. 

Nadim possessed happy manners and always picked his words carefully. He rarely ever misspoke, which naturally led him to be appointed leader in most group activities. While he kept his professional aspirations close to his chest, nearly no one would be shocked to open up the Prophet and see him as Minister of Magic. Monty imagined that his growing in attractiveness certainly wouldn’t hurt his career, but that was neither here nor there.

“Should we all introduce ourselves?” Sade’s smile was so wide, it could split in two. Nadim nodded in agreement. In two years, they were likely to be the perfect Head Boy and Girl. 

“We’ve been in classes together for four years now,” Lorcan spoke up. His tone had an edge to it that Monty didn’t remember being there before in their - admittedly - brief interactions. “If you don’t know someone’s name, you haven’t been paying close enough attention.”

Lysander’s gaze returned to his lap.

“Maybe we should say fun facts about ourselves,” Sade tried to diffuse the awkwardness. This was the perfect stalling opportunity.

“I agree,” Monty added quickly. Sade shot her a grateful smile. “I think we’ll work best as a team if we’re all friends.”

“We don’t need to be friends to do our job,” Lorcan mumbled. Sade and Monty gave one another _the look_ , the sacred feminine code that transcends all language barriers, and continued on.

From their sharing circle, Monty learned that Natalia wanted to be a portraitist, Lorcan prided himself in creating his own spells, Sade could speak three languages other than English, Calvin’s family had recently rescued an abandoned Niffler (and subsequently lost all their silverware), Nadim interned for the Ministry over the summer, Mariana had returned from visiting family in Mexico only three days prior (carefully reminding the group that the Caticovases were the most powerful wizarding family in Mexico), and Lysander hoped to work as an editorial assistant for the Quibbler when he graduated.

Monty began to wish she hadn’t endorsed the fun fact plan, as she was thoroughly unsure what to say about herself. She was certain there were things she was notorious for (Gryffindor’s resident party girl, the Chaser that lost Gryffindor the Cup, the American, etc.), but this year, she was determined to earn the respect of her peers. She was actually quite tired of maintaining her persona.

“I, uh,” she scrambled to come up with something. Lorcan snickered quietly. “I spend a lot of my free time studying advanced mathematics and enchantments for modern muggle technology.”

“You can’t enchant muggle technology,” Mariana snapped.

“See, that’s the thing. I have a theory that if you blend muggle engineering with more advanced charms, you actually can. I don’t know, it’s just a theory.”

Mariana scoffed and turned her attention towards Nadim. “Is that enough socializing?”

The seventh year prefects had already left, and the sixth years were grabbing their bags to leave.

Nadim looked to Sade, who politely shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“I think this will be a great team!” Sade cheered. 

While the other prefects rose to leave the railcar, Monty hesitated. There was still a significant amount of time left before the train arrived at Hogsmeade station, and she did not want to spend it hiding from Potter and his trailing family tree. She briefly considered spending the rest of her time sucking up to the Heads, but she supposed they deserved to enjoy the rest of their last first ride to Hogwarts. 

To her moderate surprise, Natalia Truitt also did not rise, but rather pulled out a sketchpad. As Lysander maneuvered around Natalia to exit the row, Monty slid over to make up the space.

“Not looking to join the fray either?” Monty asked politely. In truth, she was just desperate for as many friends as she could manage at this point. She was, in her essence, a social butterfly. Hermitude was not her calling.

Natalia looked up from her sketchbook and smiled. “Honestly? I’m just trying to avoid Lorcan; he’s been talking my ear off about rounds and duties from the instant he saw my pin.”

They began to share horror stories of Lorcan Scamander’s intense expectations. Monty did feel guilty that a few of the indictments she shared were actually tales she heard from Lysander, but she really couldn’t be expected to turn down a gossip session. After all, she was still fifteen and mutual dislike is always the best bonding technique.

Monty wasn’t sure how she hadn’t taken more notice of Natalia before. Her features were soft, complimented well by her waist-length, wavy brown hair and almond-shaped blue eyes. She had a small stud piercing in her nose, and piercings going up her ear that hinted at a rebelliousness otherwise hidden by her quiet demeanor and small movements. On her wrist, an ink doodling of a solar system rotated around in circles. When Natalia noticed Monty looking at it, she turned her hand over and opened her palm to reveal a drawing of the sun, the rays flaring repetitively.

“After graduation, I’m getting it tattooed.”

“That’s incredible!” Monty continued to gape at it in awe. “Anyone that wants a tattoo, I’m sending straight to you.”

Natalia blushed. “Thank you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company as the only two left in the compartment. Outside the window, the Scottish countryside whipped by in a dewey green blur. Were she to take off her glasses, Monty would’ve been sure to only see a wall of emerald. Emerald green was her favorite, and she was always going to be astronomically jealous of Slytherin for their house colors. Past the window, grainy specks sparkled that could’ve either been rain or visual snow, but between the speed of the train and Monty’s questionable eyesight, it was relatively indecipherable.

“Oh, I meant to tell you that I thought your theory was very interesting,” Natalia spoke suddenly. “Well, you know I grew up in the muggle world. Everything moves so quickly out there now, and when you go back, you feel left behind.

“Summer’s the worst, too. My parents don’t see the point in getting me a cell phone if I’m only going to use it a few months out of the year, so I always get forgotten in family plans and inside jokes. And let’s be honest, wizard music sucks.”

“Right?” Monty near cackled. “Worty Greenbolt wants what Harry Styles has.”

“Ugh, I’d kill to listen to Harry Styles!”

“My cousins actually get me records for holidays,” giddiness overtook Monty. “I have a decent library going, and I did get a Harry Styles album. I can bring my record player to the prefect bathroom sometime. It took me all third year to get the enchantment right.” There were actually plenty of pre-enchanted record players you could get at Diagon Alley, but Monty preferred her muggle one with the pink rose pattern. Besides, the work was good training for her new expedition of enchanting her aunt’s old CD player.

It was thrilling to have someone to talk to about muggle culture. Niamh Clancy was the only muggleborn Gryffindor girl in their year, and she didn’t like to talk about her muggle upbringing. On occasion, Monty was able to engage Archie Wright, the only other Gryffindor muggleborn in fifth year, in a conversation about movies they might have seen over summer holiday. However, Monty’s muggle culture references came from her cousins in Colorado and frequently went out of fashion before she could discuss it with anyone.

Out of politeness, Lysander would often try to engage her with American wizard trends with her that he got from his great aunt in New York, but she had no interest in being a part of American wizarding culture. She was, in all confusion, a British witch and an American muggle, and neither of those things fit with the other. At least not at Hogwarts.

Every once in a while, Hogwarts would be a bitter realization that she was growing to be more of her mother than her father. While like her father in temperament, she was constantly reminded by professors, portraits, and ghosts that she was the spitting image of her mother. She couldn’t step too far without a comparison of their freckles, dark brown waves, or dark eyes. It irritated her that they wouldn’t know that she had her father’s smile, laugh, or his sense of adventure. There was only one portrait that commented on her likeness to her mother in a way that mattered, a portrait of a young man she was eager to see.

Monty hadn’t realized she’d drifted off into her personal la la land until the screech of the train’s brakes reverberated through her ears. Natalia jumped up, practically itching to get off the train. Leaving the comfort of the train meant the increased likelihood of riding in a carriage with Gryffindors, so Monty was in no particular hurry to get up or out. 

“You go on ahead,” Monty waved Natalia off casually. Natalia looked unsure, but was reassured by the ear splitting grin Monty could pull off so convincingly.

Natalia took off just short of a sprint, leaving Monty alone in the pulsating silence of the empty space around her. She supposed she could just stay there until the train returned to Kings Cross, but the most annoying thought bounced through her head like that stupid rabbit from that animated muggle movie she couldn’t quite place the name of at the moment. _Avoiding your problems is cowardice._ And the worst part was, it was probably true.

With the heaviest of sighs, Monty grabbed her bag and forced herself through the door to the corridor, only to be met by a cocky, lopsided grin under a mop of unkempt black hair blocking her path.

“Not very Gryffindor of you to be hiding away. Is it, Baird?”


	2. James S. Potter, or The (not so) Great Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James' first task as Captain: find the Chaser. Unfortunately, James Sirius Potter inherited his father's observational skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I was originally going to wait until the third chapter was written to even post this chapter, but I couldn't wait. I hope you enjoy James Potter II being an idiot.

In the past years, sharing a compartment with the Gryffindor team felt like the pinnacle of popularity. However, now that all but one remaining member of the team was related to him, James had to wonder if his Hogwarts Express seating arrangement was beginning to hurt his reputation. Still, he was fairly certain it would damage team morale were he to change compartments and abandon the team in his first day as the newly minted Captain. The last thing he needed after the Great Quidditch Cup Disaster of 2019 was a decline in team spirit.

Despite the considerable setbacks he was sure to face in his first term as Captain, James was characteristically optimistic about their chances for the 2020 Cup. They had narrowly lost the Cup in what he could only describe as a freak accident (though some spectators weren’t as eager to label it an accident), and with Roxanne’s injuries healed, they were back in action. Granted, it was fairly difficult for him to determine if they were really “back in action” considering the other Beater, one of the Chasers, and the Keeper had all recently graduated.

Instead of seeing this as a detriment to the team, James considered it his opportunity to build a legacy for the future of Gryffindor Quidditch and make his mark as the best Captain Hogwarts had ever seen. Somehow, he was shocked whenever anyone told him he had an ego.

“D’you think any sixth or seventh years have sprouted any talent over the summer?” James joked. Truthfully, he was hoping that one of them had, indeed, magically sprouted talent over the summer, especially to fill the open Beater position. Younger years could be great and all, but a Beater needed the strength of someone older than twelve. He supposed he could give Danica Armfelt’s vacant Chaser position to Jake Lien, who practically groveled for the position from every Captain since his second year, but Jake always lacked focus on the pitch and was a bit of a prat.

He thought maybe this would be the year he would finally convince Greer Wood to try out for the team, but it was almost certain she’d say no. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a bit jealous that she so easily evaded her family legacy. Would that it were so easy for him.

Looking around the compartment, he realized that his family legacy was the only thing staring back at him. A train ride alone with just two of his cousins was not exactly how he imagined starting off his year. It seemed to him that when it was quiet, he wasn’t nearly as popular as he’d been painted. Even some of his own family members wouldn’t sit with him. Lucy was sitting with the other fifth year Gryffindors, Albus wouldn’t be caught dead sharing a compartment with him, and he’d stupidly shooed Lily and Hugo off to go make their own friends. He could count on Lysander to join them after the prefect meeting, but that was the extent of his close contacts.

James suddenly felt very guilty for making Rose and Roxanne come to Britain’s most pathetic team meeting in recent history. They probably would have preferred to ride with their friends, but then James would have to admit that until Lysander got out of his meeting, he would be entirely alone. Instead, he selfishly decided to fill the space by talking about new formation ideas and strategies.

“So,” he began, interrupting Rose mid-sentence. She glared at him. “We have to replace a Beater, a Chaser, and our Keeper. Not ideal, but we’ll manage.”

“Two Chasers,” Rose corrected. 

“What?” James was genuinely confused. “You’re not quitting, are you?

Roxanne looked at him like he was the stupidest person she’d ever met, which was… fair. “You can’t honestly tell me you didn’t notice a very specific person is missing from our meeting.”

He had noticed. He’d very pointedly tried to avoid noticing because it was very difficult not to notice.

“I’m sure she just forgot,” James would have liked to change the subject. 

She hadn’t spoken to him for the remainder of last term and did not respond to a single owl about his plans for new Chaser formations for the upcoming year. He’d chalked it up to her staying in muggle America for the summer, out of owl’s reach. Nothing to worry about, and positively not his fault.

“I guess she could be prefect,” Roxanne mused. “It’s not me, and we know it isn’t Lucy.”

That seemed far less likely than her quitting the team. Monty had a detention rate that rivaled his own. Last Christmas, she had thrown a Room of Requirement party so large that McGonagall herself had to shut it down. She started second term of fourth year with two weeks detention and organized a “liberation celebration” on her first free night. James would bet 50 galleons that Niamh Clancy was prefect.

James groaned. “I’ll talk to her tonight.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Roxanne snorted.

“What? We’re friends!”

Roxanne raised her eyebrows, and Rose smacked her lips. They both looked away from him and out the window. James softly banged his head against the wall in frustration. 

He had been positive that he would be able to mend his friendship with Monty when the summer first began, but with each unanswered letter, his faith dwindled considerably. What was worse was he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done. They’d always had a friendship based on joking insults and banter, but starting the evening after the Quidditch Cup, he was only ever met with cold silence. It was Rose that had been more aggressive towards her, which reasonably came from a place of concern for Roxanne’s injuries, but James hadn’t said anything to Monty until later that night.

Maybe she was just avoiding the whole Weasley-Potter family in general, which would be difficult considering she directly roomed with two of them. If it was guilt over causing Roxanne’s crash, he could work with that, but anger towards him was a whole other problem. He was not always the most delicate in manner.

“You know what?” James’ optimism kicked back in. Rose jumped at his sudden rise in volume. “This is just my first test as Captain! I’m getting Baird to stay on the team, mark my words.”

James sprung to his feet, nearly hitting his head on the overhead compartment. He was quite proud (obnoxiously so, Al would say) that he had just passed six feet tall over the summer. Determined as ever, James strutted out of the compartment and into the corridor. A brief moment later, he popped his head back into the compartment.

“Meeting adjourned,” he said. Roxanne and Rose grabbed their things and left the compartment in the opposite direction.

James wasn’t quite sure where to start his search for the Gryffindor Chaser. It was a safe bet that she was not going to be with the other Gryffindor fifth years, and if she were, Roxanne would likely report that back to him. He’d admit that his skills of deduction were not particularly keen, so he started his search in the only way he could think: opening the door to every single compartment.

He was sure that he’d never been glared at by so many wizards before, not even when he messed up a prank second year and every slice of pumpkin pie at the Hufflepuff table exploded. He suspected that many of the older Hufflepuffs were still not his biggest fan, but it had never been directly confirmed until almost every Hufflepuff-filled compartment slammed the door in his face.

He thought he might’ve struck success when he came across a third year Ravenclaw compartment containing Joel Baird. Instead he was met with a sharply dismissive, “do I look like I care?” James thought it was impossible for a Baird to be any more of a twat than Finch, but Joel proved to be of at the very least equal pratness.

James rolled his eyes and powered on. Just before opening a compartment door on the left side of the corridor, a pair of small hands grabbed him by the side and yanked him into a compartment on the right. He drew his wand, ready to fire, but was met by the giddy face of his little sister.

“Jamie! Jamie! Look!” Lily was more ginger blur than distinctly human. “Friends!”

James’ rectangular glasses had gone so askew that they were hanging on only by his right ear. He stowed away his wand and adjusted his glasses. James turned in the direction Lily was pointing, met by the faces of Hugo, a blond boy, and a black haired girl, neither of which he recognized. 

“Ah, hello,” he waved, glancing towards the door, eager to continue his search. “I’m James.”

“Oh, we know,” the black haired girl spoke. Scottish. “You’re kind of famous.”

James nodded. “Right, well.”

“My name’s Emiko. Lovely to meet you. This is Jasper.” The blond boy waved sheepishly. “He’s shy.”

That was a Gryffindor if he ever saw one. “Nice to meet you both, but I’m afraid I must be going.” He really wished his mum could see him now. She was rarely ever pleased with his manners, so he’d love to rub his politeness in her face. _Well, that’d defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?_

Lily pouted; she was particularly adept at using her large brown eyes to get whatever she wanted. “But you just got here.”

In nearly any other situation, the Kneazle eyes would’ve convinced him to stay and chat with his sister and cousin’s new acquaintances, but the call to action was still out beckoning his search forward.

“Sorry, Kneazle,” he patted her red hair. She swatted his hand away and scrunched up her nose at the nickname. “The game is afoot.” Christmas holiday third year, he lightly skimmed an old muggle mystery novel to try and impress a fifth year muggleborn Ravenclaw girl. It did not work.

With a wink, James slipped back through the door into the corridor, intending to make haste so he could have more time to convince Monty that she simply had to stay on the team. Each compartment came with a new disappointment until he got to the very front of the train. He groaned miserably, having chosen the complete wrong direction to start his search. He let himself wallow in his pain for just a few seconds before springing back into his work.

As he neared the compartment where he first started his search, the prefects began to walk through the corridor to join their friends. James brightened considerably realizing that he was about to be reunited with Lysander. He’d seen him earlier on the platform, sure, but that was forever ago. This was now. 

Just ahead, James was met with the sneer of Lorcan Scamander. James had grown up quite close with both of the Scamander twins. James always got along better with Lysander, but he always made a point to include Lorcan. When Lorcan was sorted into Ravenclaw, he became exceedingly cold and distant, thinking himself far superior to the likes of common Gryffindors, or at least that’s how it seemed. James didn’t know why or how, but he did know that as of August, Lysander and Lorcan were no longer speaking. And on principle, that meant James and Lorcan were no longer on decent terms.

“Careful, Lorcy dear,” James did his best imitation of Luna, though impressions were never his strongest suit. “Remember to play nice.”

James kind of wanted Lorcan to hex him, even spit on him, really anything to justify a fight. It didn’t matter what Lysander and Lorcan were fighting about, or who even started it. What mattered was Lysander was hurting, and James was honor bound to defend him. To his dismay, however, Lorcan only glared at him and lightly bumped into his shoulder walking by. Even James couldn’t make a fight out of that.

So he continued on, slightly derailing his search so he could look for Lysander as well, which proved to be a rather easy task as he was not at all far ahead.

“Lysander, my darling prefect!” James gleefully shouted. A Slytherin of no determinate age opened her compartment door and shushed him. He only winked back. “Sander, my sweet, are you bound by duty to stop me from making stupid decisions?”

“That depends,” Lysander hummed in faux thought, narrowing his eyes and cupping his chin. “Is it a prank-related stupid decision or the disgusting conquests of the teenage mind-related stupid decision?”

“Neither!” James frequently fared towards melodrama. He could see why the other boys in their dorm often tired of them. “It’s one Miss Montgomery Baird. Do you know her middle name, by chance?”

“No,” Lysander replied. “Quidditch or personal?”

“Personal how?”

“Romantic?”

“No, platonic, but yes, Quidditch.”

“So Quidditch or personal?”

“Precisely, my dear!”

“Honestly, James, these conversations give me headaches,” Lysander rubbed his temple for effect. James’ brain was almost always running at full speed, and one was enormously lucky if they had the wits to keep up with it. “She’s in the prefect car.”

“Why would she be there?” Yes, his thoughts ran at full speed, but some points flew overhead like a Seeker going after the Snitch. Lysander simply stared at him, lying in wait. After a moment, the Snitch was caught. “Oh, _she’s_ prefect?”

James was 50 galleons poorer and astronomically thankful that he did not verbally express his desire for a bet. Stranger things had happened than the likes of Montgomery Baird becoming prefect, and in hindsight, the decision did make a great deal of sense. His dad told him before that it was beneficial to give rebellious children leadership positions because they respect the rules more, or something to that effect. He hadn’t been paying full attention. A darker part of his mind whispered that that was the only reason he got Captain over Roxanne, an attempt to straighten him out, like his grandfather before him. He quickly shook the thought from out his head and returned his attention towards Lysander.

“To the prefect car, it is!” He did not respond to Lysander’s calls that he was not permitted inside the prefect railcar, which was guaranteed to make him squirm just a bit. In this case, and this case alone, it was a rule he was going to respect solely out of the need to gain at least some favor with Monty. The last thing he needed was to start off the conversation on the wrong foot.

He was unsure how long he had been waiting at the door to the prefect car. There were no windows nearby, and no one had come in or out of their compartments to indicate any passing of time. In moments such as that, James enjoyed creating his own entertainment. The game of the day was guessing Miss Montgomery Baird’s wand makeup. After quite some time, it became apparent that the makeshift game would yield no satisfaction as he had no way of verifying his guesses. Just as he was about to create a new, certainly more entertaining game, the train’s screaming brakes and near abrupt halt indicated the end of their journey.

Students clamored to exit their compartments, no doubt desperate to start the feast. James’ stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d missed the candy trolley while performing his miserable attempt at detective work. His heartbeat quickened at the realization that he had completely forgotten his bag in his compartment earlier, worrying that it could’ve been taken. He considered abandoning his current mission to ensure the security of his belongings, but at that moment the door opened and a Ravenclaw prefect rushed past him. No one else followed behind her, and in a state of near anguish, he wondered if he had missed Monty all together.

The door opened once more, revealing none other than Miss Montgomery Baird. He took a quick second to assess her, purely for anthropological reasons. He also learned that word when trying to impress that Ravenclaw three years his senior. 

Monty had grown easily an inch taller, which caused for her skirt to be just a few centimeters above code. Probably not noticeable to anyone without an acute awareness of her standard wear, but enough for him to take note. Her hair had more auburn in it from the summer sun, which seemed confirmed by a multitude of new freckles across her warm beige skin. She seemed to have acquired a hobby for makeup, as she had pinker lips and evenly painted lines of black on her eyelids that he didn’t know the name of. If he were to be completely honest, which he wouldn’t be if anyone asked, she had gotten far more attractive in the time he hadn’t seen her. He’d normally considered her to be plain, but the summer had served her well.

James pushed up his glasses and smiled, trying to cover up his blatant staring. “Not very Gryffindor of you to be hiding away. Is it, Baird?” So much for starting the conversation off on the right foot.

Just as she had all summer, Monty ignored him and briskly walked past down the corridor. For a moment, a very stupid moment, he just enjoyed watching her walk away. _Teenageness is a prison._ He snapped back into reality and hurried after her.

“Wait, Baird!” She did not turn around, but began to walk with longer, quicker strides. Her legs really did lengthen quite significantly. _Merlin, will you get a hold of yourself?_ He did not want to run after her. Even in a dire situation, he did not want to come off desperate. He was just about to catch up to her when he passed his original compartment. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, slipping in to grab his abandoned bag. When he came back out, Monty was not to be found. Perhaps there were exceptions to his running rule, and he sprinted out after her.

Somehow, as it tended to be, luck was on his side, as the very last carriage was about to be loaded up, and Monty was waiting for it. He quickly slid up next to her in what was left of the queue, which was now just two Hufflepuffs snogging, Monty, and then James. The snogging Hufflepuff pair actually proved to be a convenience for James, as one would start a conversation with anyone about anything to drown out the smacking and slurping of two sixteen-year-olds having their way with each other. Merlin, James would sooner have a conversation about muggle taxes with Voldemort than sit in silence with that.

As they loaded onto the carriage, Monty made a point to keep as much space between them as possible, without positioning herself in the splash zone (the Granger grandparents took James along with them to a muggle waterpark over the summer). Still, James didn’t mind shouting, in fact he preferred it, as the Hufflepuffs began moaning.

“How was your summer?” And frankly, he expected the silence in response, but he was not so easily dissuaded. “Right, well, might as well dive right on into it. Rox and Rose told me that you are not planning on returning to your position as Chaser. Now, I think that would be a huge mistake. If you’re worried about trials, just know I won’t hold the Quidditch Cup incident against you.”

Monty narrowed her eyes, but did not respond. He was getting somewhere.

"With Armfelt gone, Rose will depend on you to be the only other experienced Chaser." He hoped that approaching the discussion logically might convince her. "None of our alternates have gotten real playing time, so it'd be a risk putting them in. Mum thinks it'd put too much stress on Rose to have to carry the Chasers, and as new Captain, I agree."

“I have no interest in Quidditch.” Which he suspected was code for ‘I have no interest in speaking to you.’ However, he swore he’d get her on the team, and he wasn’t going to back down until he did.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you love Quidditch.”

“I have have more important things to do than fly around and play a stupid ball game.”

“C’mon, Baird, one mistake shouldn’t define your Quidditch career.”

“It’s not my career,” she snapped back. “And I wasn’t the one who made the mistake. I dodged a Bludger and happened to run into Roxanne. It was not my responsibility to watch the Seekers, and I certainly wasn’t trying to ‘win my brothers the Cup’ like you and your dumb, little groupies implied.”

“I never implied anything!” 

“You said worse,” her voice was lower, darker than he’d heard before. “And I think you've said enough.”

James opened his mouth to respond, but not a single word could be persuaded to come out. He couldn’t argue with her because in fact he hadn’t said anything at all. He may not have expressed suspicion that Monty had knocked Roxanne off her broom so Finch could catch the Snitch, but he certainly did nothing to stop the rumors when he’d heard them, only Roxanne had.

In the passing shadows, James realized that this was not a battle he had the capability to win. He racked his brain to think of anything worse he might’ve said to her that would have not only convinced her to quit Quidditch, but to also darken her usually warm eyes with hatred. Whatever it was that she thought of him, it seemed to have done irreparable damage.

He stayed silent, staring pointedly at his shoes. He wished he hadn’t pursued her so adamantly on the train and to the carriage. It felt like a shameful invasion of her space and consent, and he was disappointed that he’d let his own agenda get ahead of that.

His attention was so focused on the floor of the carriage that he hadn’t even registered their arrival at Hogwarts until the Hufflepuffs’ tongues quieted. _Home, finally._ He swiftly hopped out of the carriage and rushed ahead into the masses to avoid another bout of eye contact with his (now) former friend.

James had never wanted a sorting ceremony to end so badly. He was growing so ravenous and irritable that he was unable to register the splendor of the Great Hall, any of the speeches, and about the first quarter of the sorting.

A flash of shaggy red hair did bring his attention away from his daydreams of roast chicken and potatoes of any style or creed. The Hat only paused for a moment before announcing, “HUFFLEPUFF!” Molly and Louis shouted with joy over at Hufflepuff, but Hugo’s disappointment was not particularly well hidden. James looked over to Rose, who shrugged and shot him a fake smile. He imagined it was a similar feeling as Albus’ sorting into Slytherin.

Just as he predicted, Lily’s new friend, Emiko, was sorted into Gryffindor. James was quite pleased with it, as she seemed certain to be a strong addition to the house. When Lily went up, hat perched atop her head, James sucked in his breath. As selfish as it was, he couldn’t bear it if she were to be sorted into a different house. No sibling likes to admit it, but split house loyalty is more than enough to drive siblings apart. He’d already felt like he lost Al. The hall was silent for just over a minute, which had been the longest of the year so far, before the Hat called out, “GRYFFINDOR!” 

Between his cheers, James couldn’t stop himself from sneaking a glance at Slytherin table. Albus frowned, dejected, before Scorpius Malfoy gently placed his hand on the center of Al’s back. Al looked up and his frown melted into a soft smile as he gazed up at the pale blond. Something lit up in James’ brain, but he decided to tuck it away for the time being.

The blond boy from Lily and Hugo’s compartment was the last to be sorted. Hufflepuff. James smiled to himself, glad to know that Hugo would have some company that wasn’t exclusive to their family tree.

James ate so much and so quickly that he hardly even remembered eating. He assumed the food was good, whatever it was, since he’d eaten several plates worth and even picked some off of Greer Wood’s plate. He stuffed his face, trying to avoid somehow crossing into the group conversation that Monty had reluctantly become a part of. He knew better than to look up at her, using only his peripheral to gauge her location in relation to his.

Lysander nudged him, drawing James’ attention away from his plate. Lysander gave him a questioning ‘ _how’d it go’_ look, to which James cringed and shook his head violently.

“That bad?” James nodded in reply. Lysander frowned. “Pity.”

As tempted as he was, he did not dare look directly at her, only at the letter that floated down from seemingly nowhere into her lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming this far! I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. The Patron Saint of Gryffindor Idiocracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were four other Gryffindor fifth year girls to choose as prefect over her, and Monty growing more sure that she should've been last pick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written like twelve thousand words in the past few days, and I'm pretty sure my brain is mush now. If this chapter is all wholly incoherent, I apologize. If it's coherent, and maybe even a bit good, I'd really appreciate if you hit me with that kudos button. Perchance a comment? Anyhow, please enjoy!

_ That might’ve been too harsh.  _ Clearly, James had not remembered what he said about her after the Quidditch Cup. Still, Monty straightened up, held her head higher, and firmly decided that she was in no way responsible for James’ feelings. Whether he remembered it or not, he said it, and that was what mattered.

James had far too long a history of getting away with anything and everything because of his family name, but Monty was not so easily charmed. On the other hand, she did hate how exhilarating arguments with James were. This had not been his best, as he was normally far more clever in how he approached his retorts. Instead, he was earnest and straightforward.

She nearly felt guilty, before writing off his seeming genuity as a preplanned script from Rose.  _ Yes, that’s it, scripted.  _ James Potter hadn’t a genuine bone in his body. All pomp and circumstance.

However, if the Gryffindor team was desperate enough to launch a campaign for her to not quit, that must’ve meant that her house did not despise her half so much as she previously thought.

It was never really about Quidditch, though, but rather integrity. It was Finch’s last year on the team and Joel’s first, and all it took was one person to speculate that Monty had thrown the match out of loyalty to her family. It was remarkably stupid to Monty that anyone believed that she would choose her family over her house. She knew she wasn’t subtle in her general dissociation from her family. Most of the Gryffindors didn’t understand that, though, as many of them came from historically Gryffindor families. They never felt like they had to choose between their family and their house.

It was never hard for Monty to choose. She wasn’t a Montgomery years before she had even gotten to Hogwarts. She was just branded so by her name. What she was was a Baird and a Gryffindor, and she was immensely proud of both. She never planned on admitting to it, but it broke her heart to think that Gryffindor didn’t want her back.

So she did as she always did. She shut it out. You can’t be abandoned if you get out first, she always said.  _ You can’t be accepted if you never stay, either.  _ As soon as she turned seventeen, she was going to be out of that family, but past graduation she’d have nowhere to go. As tempting as it was, she didn’t have what it took to live as an American muggle, and the American wizarding world had no place for her. Her current post-graduation plan was to live on the Knight Bus and conquer her motion sickness.

As she entered the Great Hall, she prepared for the whole of Gryffindor to turn away from her, but in a flash of dirty blonde hair, Greer Wood took hold of Monty’s upper arms.

“Merlin, I thought you’d disappeared!” Greer began to pull her towards the other fifth year Gryffindors. “And prefect, too? I couldn’t be prouder. Won’t lie, I was a dash disappointed I didn’t get it at first, but that was only when I’d thought Lucy had gotten it over me. Can you imagine how insufferable she would have been? I would’ve up and died.”

Monty giggled. “So I guess you missed me?” She felt quite grateful for such a warm reception.

Greer could talk circles around anyone, even Monty. Were she a tad more mischievous, Greer would’ve been the greatest prankster in Hogwarts history, as there was nothing she couldn’t sweet talk her way out of. She was the only person in their year without a single detention on record.

This had often proven to be beneficial for Monty. They were the party throwing dream team. Monty would organize the event and get the word out, and Greer would ensure that all professors and on duty prefects were none the wiser.

In all her lobbying for the prefect position last term, Monty hadn’t considered that Greer was actually far better suited for the post. Guilt washed over her as she watched the tiny blonde gush over each of the fifth years, no doubt genuinely excited to see all of them. Greer really did deserve prefect. Monty did not.

Monty remained silent, preferring that evening to listen as her peers conversed around her. She tried her best not to notice that James Potter sat silently next Lysander, twiddling his thumbs and staring absently at his plate. And why shouldn’t he. He was the reason that she didn’t feel comfortable enjoying conversation with her own house anymore. It served him right.

She also couldn’t help but notice that Lucy Weasley was staring her down from across the table, and it became harder to ignore when Lucy decided to explain why. “Prefect, I see?”

Monty looked down at her prefect pin in the center of her tie. She’d decided on the train to put it there so her hair wouldn’t cover it. “Ah, yeah.”

“Congratulations.” Lucy did not mean it. Roxanne and Greer gave each other  _ the look _ , and Monty took that as condemnation for Lucy’s hostility. Still, discomfort rose in her as the fifth years fell eerily silent.

“McGonagall must’ve had a bout of Dragon Pox when she sent out the letters,” Monty joked to lift the tension. She also wasn’t a big fan of talking about her achievements. “I mean why else would she give it to Lysander?”

Lysander’s loud laugh trickled down through the rest of the fifth years (save James), until even Lucy couldn’t fight her growing smile. “Gryffindor’s worst ever prefects!” Lysander shouted, and toasted his empty goblet.

“Here, here!” Archie Wright added.

“I think that title belongs to my dad,” called Rose over from the third years.

Roxanne laughed and smiled at Monty. “Do the Weasleys a favor and break that record. Don’t go all prim and proper prefect on us now.”

Greer bumped Monty’s shoulder lightly and whispered, “nothing to worry about, see?”

Sure enough, all of her peers were laughing and chatting around her as if nothing had even happened before. It was comforting, in a sense, to know that she was not as alone as she’d convinced herself she would be. Maybe Niamh and Lucy wouldn’t be as warm, but she didn’t lose Greer and Roxanne. The evening was sure to be far more comfortable than she thought previously possible.

The speeches were always overly gratuitous, meaning something only to the first years. She’d actually quite hated the first day back at Hogwarts. It felt like being in the largest, longest lecture of her life, and she didn’t even get to cast a new spell at the end of it. She was more of a doer and a mover, and waiting patiently for something to do was well out of her scope of talent.

“Wait,” Greer said, mid-McGonagall speech time. Jake Lien shushed her, prompting a glare from both Roxanne and Greer alike. Greer continued in a whisper, “is Slughorn back, again?”

It was sure that Professor Slughorn could always be convinced to come out of retirement. He’d left after their first year, replaced by Catherby Wollstod for their second and third year and Quarina Nullville for their fourth. While they were adept potions masters, neither made for very good professors. Monty was pleased to see Slughorn’s return.

“Do you think I’ll get into Slug Club this year?” Lucy was always aiming for any sort of distinction. When a decent portion of the school had the Weasley name, it was probably hard to maintain a sense of individuality.

“Slug Club would feel more like a family reunion if you did,” Roxanne retorted, and Lucy snapped her mouth shut. Monty frequently wondered if they felt more like sisters than cousins.

Other than the ceremonious return of one Professor Horace Slughorn, nothing of interest was said in opening speeches, and Monty felt that she had earned the right to tune out the sorting. For the past two years, she’d stopped watching and just waited for her table to begin cheering. She suspected that most of the company around her did the same. It took forever, and it only really mattered if there was a new addition to your own house. On occasion, an important name would spark wider interest, like a Potter. Hogwarts students probably lost interest in new Weasleys ages ago.

When James’ sister made her way up to the hat, Monty had to fight her urge to look over at him. He was sure to be riddled with nerves, and it was difficult for her to break her friendly habits. The night of Albus’ sorting, James had gone straight to bed, not looking at a single soul that tried to console him. When James Potter moped, he really committed to it. He was many things, but he was absolutely not a half-asser. 

Monty was quite pleased that Lily was a Gryffindor, as her genetics would likely make her a great addition to the Quidditch pitch. She may have quit the team, but Monty didn’t want Gryffindor to be completely doomed. However, Lily’s sorting must’ve caused a great deal of pain for Albus.

She liked Albus a great deal, even if she wasn’t sure the feeling was reciprocated. Their age and house difference meant they did not interact on a frequent basis, but in the times they’d spoken, Albus had a good sense of humor and was significantly less cocky than his brother. She found Scorpius to be pleasant company as well. They were further confirmation that Slytherins were not inherently bad people.

In fact, Monty found that most Slytherins were very nice people. There were still some deeply hateful ones to be sure, a Goyle here, a Nott there, but pureblood fanaticism was not half so common in the house as it was before. Now, nearly every year saw a muggleborn Slytherin or two. She preferred to remain optimistic that times were changing for the better.

Ultimately, there was not a significant amount of sortings that stood out to her. She recognized a new Gryffindor, Oriana Finnigan-Thomas, and a new Ravenclaw, Aventurine Bakirtzis, as her very distant cousin. On the whole, however, there was nothing of interest to report.

She was probably meant to take more notice of who was newly sorted into Gryffindor. Her job for the evening was to guide the Gryffindor first years to the common room and give them the password (it was Golden Snidget).

Monty supposed she probably looked fairly panicked because Lysander tapped her hand with his wand and whispered, “I was paying attention, don’t worry.”

Thus, she was able to eat in peace, knowing that she would not be solely responsible for any hypothetical missing Gryffindor younglings. It was probably in her best interest to shake her habit of tuning out during important speeches and events. Maybe she really was doomed to be the worst prefect in Gryffindor history. She could already picture McGonagall and Longbottom’s disappointment. That’ll be the last time they stick their neck out for an airhead party girl.

It’d be the easy route to concede to being the failure prefect.  _ What does it say on the poster in Aunt Jen’s office, again? Work smarter, not harder.  _ It was, indeed, harder to really try at being prefect.

But then she’d be proving her mother and brothers right. They thought Gryffindors were stupid, and they thought her socialite lifestyle made her the patron saint of Gryffindor idiocracy. The disappointment of the Montgomery legacy, which she could live with. However, if she failed as prefect, she’d be proving them right about Gryffindors, and that she couldn’t stomach. There were other, smaller reasons she’d want to succeed, of course. A sense of achievement, career advancement, what have you, but at the end of the day, she mostly just wanted her mother and Finch to shove it. Joel could shove it, too, while they’re at it.

She was one hundred percent positive her mother regretted giving her the Montgomery name. With no living male heirs, the Montgomery name was guaranteed to go extinct, so her mother decided to give the name to one of her children. Only, she’d chosen the wrong one.

Monty took pride in her name for the purpose of desecrating it. It didn’t deserve honor or glory. A house of well-mannered Ravenclaws that basked in the heavenly glow of their own self-importance. True, the Montgomerys were not avid pureblood fanatics, but they never did anything to stop those that were. Instead, the Montgomerys quietly and happily attended Avery weddings, Rosier holidays, and Black galas. So the name ended with her, a brash halfblood Gryffindor reject. As it should be.

As the feast ended, a neatly sealed letter floated down from above her, landing gently on her lap. Monty looked around the Great Hall, trying to catch anyone who might’ve been waiting for her to mindlessly fall for some ridiculous prank, but she found that she was of no interest or importance to those around her. She cautiously opened the letter, waiting for an explosion or a sneaky hex of some sort, but was instead met with slender, spidery calligraphy.

_ Miss Montgomery P. Baird, _

_ Please report to the Headmistress’ office immediately following dinner. _

_ Password: Ambrosia. _

Greer peaked over her shoulder, but the note swiftly disintegrated. “What’d it say?”

“I think I’m getting fired already,” replied Monty. “McGonagall’s called me in.”

The fifth years fell uncomfortably silent, though Lucy looked the tiniest bit pleased. Even James was staring at her. Something seemed to spark behind his hazel eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak.

“Lysander!” Monty quickly filled the dead air so that James couldn’t say anything. “You’ll be okay herding the first years alone?”

“Not a problem,” he said. “And, I doubt you’re getting fired.” But that was less convincing.

She sucked in a deep breath, and booked it out of the Great Hall before she could get caught in the imminent chaos that would be students dispersing. She’d really hoped to visit the Battle of Hogwarts memorial portrait hall that evening, but it seemed unlikely that she’d find the time.

Apparently, she had departed the Great Hall a tad too early, as McGonagall had not yet made it to her office. It was not Monty’s first time in the Headmistress’ office, and she could reasonably assume it wouldn’t be her last, but she had not been in since the Room of Requirement All-House Yuletide Extravaganza of 2018. It was unlikely she’d ever be able to top that performance.

The portrait wall of Headmasters and mistresses past was her favorite part of the room. Monty always took immense pleasure out of talking to as many portraits would respond to her. There was always so much history to be learned, even if it was grotesque and retched. (She was frequently teased for being one of the only people who was genuinely excited to go to History of Magic.)

It was for this reason, she didn’t entirely mind “halfblood” being spat at her by the volatile loathing tongues of a number of the pureblood former heads. She didn’t care for blood status, anyway.

“My darling,” one of the portraits cooed at her. Monty grinned up at the portrait of her (many greats) grandfather, Avallach Montgomery, Headmaster of Hogwarts 1526-1603. “Remarkable how after all these years, the children still have my Helewys’ lovely nose. Do you not agree, Everard?” Everard, asleep in the portrait just below, did not respond.

Avallach always said this when he saw Monty. She sometimes wondered if that was all he could say to her, and if he’d said the same to Finch. She thought it best not to ask. And she would not be given a chance to if she wanted, as McGonagall soon entered the office.

“Early are you, Miss Baird?” Monty couldn’t tell if McGonagall was being sarcastic. Her tone was incredibly even. “Very well, take a seat.”

Monty hurried to the nearest seat, probably a skosh quicker than was considered dignified. Professor McGonagall was the sole member of Hogwarts faculty of whom Monty was genuinely afraid. Monty was a Gryffindor though and through, until she was in the all-powerful presence of McGonagall. She was certain McGonagall could kill her with a glare if she wanted, even as a cat. And she definitely did not want to mess around and find out if her theory was sound.

“Will I be seeing you on the Quidditch pitch this year?” 

Monty was pretty sure she was not called in to discuss Quidditch, but by this point in the day, it wouldn’t have phased her. “No, Professor. I’m afraid not.”

“Pity.” It was silent for a brief moment. “Do you have an idea why you’ve been called in?” 

Monty responded with a shake of her head, which was a lie. She had an idea. She had several ideas, none of which positive. 

“Professor Longbottom recommended you for the position of prefect, and I chose to honor his submission. However, I do want to be sure that you are aware of the importance of your duties.

You have a reputation as a rule breaker and a troublemaker. That stops now, or you will be removed as prefect without further warning. This means no memorizing rounds schedules to determine the best nights for parties in the Come and Go Room, do you understand?”

It hadn’t occurred to Monty to memorize prefect rounds as an aid in party throwing. Why McGonagall chose to lead with that example, Monty couldn’t be positive, but a faint glint in the Headmistress’ eyes suggested that she was speaking from personal experience.

“Yes, Professor,” said Monty, voice small and eyes wide.

“Oh, please, Miss Baird.” McGonagall’s tone lightened, and the room seemed to brighten along with it. “Try not to look too terrified.”

Monty smiled weakly and nodded.

“The greatest witches are the ones that push the limit,” McGonagall began, “but to be truly remarkable, they must first receive their education. You are dismissed, Miss Baird”

Monty hadn’t considered before whether she would grow up to a great witch or not. She had not given much thought past Hogwarts at all, really, unless you counted the Knight Bus plan.

She hesitated just before she got to the door to leave. “Professor?” McGonagall hummed, and Monty turned around to face her again. “You could have ignored Professor Longbottom’s recommendation and picked one of the other girls. I wasn’t the only one who wanted the position. Why me?”

Professor McGonagall rose from her chair and moved to stand in front of the desk. 

“You consistently receive top marks in nearly all your classes.” Monty couldn’t take care of a plant if her life depended on it, and she’d done so poorly in Care of Magical Creatures that she was forced to drop it after her first term. She was no stranger to a potion or two blowing up in her face, either. “You are top of your year in Charms, and not too far behind in Transfiguration. You’re a member of Frog Choir and began as a starting Chaser in your second year, and even I must admit your event coordination skills are impressive for one so young. I seem to recall that the Sorting Hat stalled on you for a minute or so. You were nearly sorted into Ravenclaw, were you not?”

“Hufflepuff, actually,” replied Monty. This seemed to surprise the professor, and Monty was the tiniest bit proud of that. “The Hat said I could do well in all the houses, so I was possibly best suited for Hufflepuff.”

“And what changed its mind?”

“Well, it said maybe I should remain with my family in Ravenclaw, and I said I’d sooner fistfight the Giant Squid than be a Ravenclaw.”

McGonagall smiled, very nearly laughing. “Very well.”

For reasons she could not explain, Monty felt the familiar wave of anxiety ripple through her. “Are you sure I should be prefect, Professor? I’ve broken so many rules.”

“It takes a committed rule breaker to thoroughly understand the rules in place. Your brothers are smart, Miss Baird, but I believe you have the potential to be brilliant.”

She’d always thought herself to be wholly unimpressive. Her mother always heralded Finch as the intelligent one, Joel as the athletic prodigy, and Monty was… the middle one. It hadn’t occurred to her that someone, let alone the Headmistress, might find her capable of anything more. Monty seemed to have a whole new lease on how to utilize her time at Hogwarts.

Her head was held high and she walked through the halls with intention now. She was going to do things right and do them well. There was nothing that could slow her down now.

As she rounded the corner to the stairs, Monty was met by the tan face and unruly black hair James S. Potter. He was walking at a brisk pace before, and nearly fell forward from the kinetic energy of his abrupt stop. He stared at her, hazel eyes widely worried behind thick tortoise shell frames, unsure of his next move.

“You have an invisibility cloak, don’t you?”

“Uh,” James seemed shocked that she’d spoken. “Yes.”

“Next time, I’d suggest you use it.” As Monty walked away, she called out to him, “detention, Potter.”

And she knew she’d just declared war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to be back with the next chapter by Monday or Tuesday, but I'll definitely be more amped to write if you............ comment :) Thanks for reading!!!!


	4. O Captain!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James goes head to head with Monty, and discovers that being Captain is not all its cracked up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going to be a little dialogue heavy, and it might move a bit quickly as I need the timeline to get cracking, or else you're going to be stuck in the slowest burn ever. This chapter's a bit more like tiny vignettes strung together than anything.

James would have liked to relax after a long first day of classes, maybe play a game of Exploding Snap with his sister, catch up with his roommates, usual teenage end of day activities. Instead, he had to spend his evening mopping the Great Hall immediately following dinner. To say he was upset would’ve been the understatement of the millenia.

“Detention this early in the semester, Mr. Potter?” Professor McGonagall said in passing. “I’m impressed.”

James wanted to scream... and he still had to write a revisionary Charms essay. Leave it to Flitwick to assign an essay on the first day of classes. _Monty looked so smug when he did, that tosser._ He supposed he could put it off until tomorrow evening, but then he’d be setting a precedent of procrastination, and it was way, way too early in the term for that.

Was he out past curfew? Yes, but did he deserve detention for it? Probably not. Any other prefect would have taken points off, but this was vindictive. There was no honor to his punishment.

He thought it’d be like when she refused to speak to him for the first three months of first year because he’d gotten the Ravenclaws to call her ‘Ilvermorny.’ She had a temper, to be sure, but she was not historically one to hold much of a grudge. After long deliberation with Lysander in the common room the night before, he began to hope that if he gave it some time, she’d cool off and return to normal. This was confirmation to the contrary.

Nothing he could have allegedly said could justify her actions. And again, they were allegations. She was all smiles and jokes with the rest of the Gryffindors, so she was clearly unjustly singling him out. And James did not intend on going down without a fight.

By the time he got back to the common room, there was no energy left for Exploding Snap with Lily, or a Charms essay, or anything that wasn’t collapsing into a heap on the nearest armchair. He slung his arm over his face and resolved to die there, destitute, sweaty, and alone. 

“Our brave soldier back from war, everybody!” Lysander called from across the room. Someone shushed him. “Oh, sod off, Niamh. You’re not the prefect here.”

Not a moment later, James felt the full body weight of a growing teenager perching upon his lap. He groaned, lifted his arm off his face, and proceeded to shove Lysander off him. Lysander let out a loud laugh from his new place on the floor.

“Still moping, I see,” he said. James glowered at him, through (very recently) smudged glasses. He took them off and used the hem of his robe to clean them. “Honestly, James, what did you expect being out past curfew?”

“A semblance of leeway.” James was grumpy. “Don’t think I’ll be seeing that from Baird any time this year.”

Lysander rolled his eyes. “If she’s all you’re going to talk about this term, do let me know so I can write to Mum for earplugs.” James shushed him, gesturing wildly at the students around them. Lysander continued in a dramatic whisper, “you’re bloody ridiculous.”

But James actually felt quite serious, gravely so. He would gladly take punishment if it was well deserved, but he really couldn’t stand the sheer abuse of power. “Would you have done it?” James asked. Lysander lifted a delicate, quizzical brow. “If you were her, and I were anyone else, would you have given detention?”

“James,” he said, his voice dripping with reproach. But in the firelight, the gold in James’ eyes sparkled with desperation. Lysander had grown up around multitudes of beasts and creatures that pleaded and begged to varying degrees of success, but James was always insufferably convincing. He sighed deeply. “No, I don’t suppose I would have. I would have taken off points, though.”

James was sure that Lysander found the whole issue to be so minor that the former’s fixation on it was absurd. In many cases, James would’ve let it all go, laughed it off, and forgotten it within a few days, but it kept him up the night before, spoiled his appetite at breakfast, and gnawed at the corner of his brain throughout his classes. He simply couldn’t move past the fact that he did not deserve this.

‘Sometimes, things happen to people that don’t deserve it.’ James could imagine his father saying this to him in that condescending way that reminded him that he was Harry freakin’ Potter, and there was not a single problem James could have that would be as dire as Harry Potter’s smallest problem. And he could see it paired with the hand on his shoulder that he was sure his dad meant to be reassuring, but instead just made him feel small.

It was not very Gryffindor of him to sit around and wallow in something so small. If he had a problem with something, he owed it to himself to confront it. And that was exactly what he intended to do.

James scanned around the common room, before spotting a messy brown ponytail sitting alone by the radio next to the stairs. Where he not so angry, he might’ve paused to notice that she actually looked fairly lovely with tendrils of hair framing her face, but he was angry, and he did notice that she looked fairly stupid with her nose stuck in some unidentified contraption. With a large huff, James pounced to his feet and began to make his way across the common room.

Lysander appeared startled and looked between James and his apparent target. He tried to get to his feet in time to stop his friend, but his own gangly, growing limbs betrayed him. He could only look on in horror at the nightmare that was to come.

With his newly long legs, it did not take James more than a few strides to make it over to where Monty was sitting, using her wand to demolish some mechanical entity. She was listening intently to what James’ recognized as Lee Jordan’s voice over the radio next to her. “MACUSA presidential candidate, Maritha Peerview, was found dead in her home this morning. Officials say—” And James switched the radio off.

“Hey!” Monty cried, looking up from her… whatever it was. Seeing James, her expression soured, then quickly cooled. “Oh, it’s you. How was your evening, Potter?” 

She punished him, then treated him with sarcasm. So it really was to be war.

“Mopping the Great Hall? Really?”

“Don’t worry, I saved the owlery for next time.” 

“One of the first years threw up all over the floor!”

She smiled easily, and turned away. As she reached to turn the radio back on, James caught her hand. _Ooh, soft._ He wanted to punch himself dead between the eyes. She yanked her hand back.

“It was unfair treatment!” James’ voice cracked, raising an octave, and he cleared his throat. She turned back around to face him, appearing to be amused at his pubescent misfortunes. He tried again, deeper, “it was unfair treatment.”

“You’ve been getting unfair treatment your whole life.” Monty rolled her eyes. “This is just the first time it hasn’t benefited you.”

“You were abusing your post.”

“You were out past curfew!”

“So take points off!”

The whole common room was staring. Monty rose up out of her chair. Her dark glare and wand pointing at his chest was only nullified by James’ realization that she was now far shorter than him.

“You’re so pathetic.” Her voice was crackling and spitting like the flames in the fireplace. “Anyone else would have taken the detention and moved on. No, everything has to go itty, bitty baby Potter’s way, or else he cries about it. Grow up, James. You sound weak.”

James wasn’t sure if the common room had quieted to hear what she was saying, or because of what she said, but in either scenario, the silence fell heavy on his chest. He backed away, carefully eyeing her wand, and now feeling the full threat of its place pointing at his heart. He had two choices: accept the loss of this battle and try again at the next, or twist the knife one more time and see where it goes.

“Okay, you win.” He threw his hands up in the air, surrendering. He began to walk away, but turned back one more time, bowing at her. “Ilvermorny.”

And as quick as he turned around, his legs locked up, and he toppled right over.

* * *

It didn’t take long for word to get out about the Potter-Baird common room jinxing scandal, and as most students tried to remain on their best behavior at the start of term, it was the only topic of discussion among the Hogwarts gossip circles for the first two weeks of school. In fairness, he probably should have seen the jinx coming. Monty was no stranger to handing out hexes and jinxes like candy when her patience was exhausted. He just kind of expected that she’d reserve them for special occasions now that she was prefect.

Nevertheless, he decided to view the ongoing talk of the incident as free publicity for Gryffindor Quidditch trials that weekend, and not as his third loss against Monty in a row. James was now growing to be glad that she was not returning to her position as Chaser. He wasn’t sure the team would survive practices if their trusty Captain was constantly jinxed clean off his broom.

So he decided to steer clear of her for the time being, just to ensure that he didn’t end up in the hospital wing right before trials. It was absolutely not because he was nervous around her. In fact, he was eager for their next spat, as she seemed to be growing too comfortable. He’d wait for the right moment to strike.

And in a stroke of brilliance, James concluded that he simply had to come up with the most inventive, most creative, and decently temporary prank he could. Enough to publicly humiliate her, but not enough to scar her permanently.

“No, James, I am not helping you prank her,” said Lysander, exhausted after a night of rounds. 

“When did you get so boring?”

“When an owl brought me and my brother some stupid pins.”

“Seriously, Sander,” James plopped down face first into Lysander’s pillow. “Ew you t el me in thi stu.”

Lysander was not pleased that his bed had become the choice location for James’ pouting and plotting. “I have no clue what you just said.”

James rolled over and stared longingly at the ceiling. “You used to help me in this stuff. You being prefect is the worst thing to ever happen to me!”

“Well, the options were limited.” Which was true. James would have been sure to make a mockery of the position. Archie was too busy… not wanting to be prefect. Leland Digby was committed to being chronically late, and Miles Wen was committed to following Leland Digby. Lysander was the best pick by far. “Have you thought about maybe just leaving her alone?”

“She jinxed me!”

“Which you deserved.”

“Is there some clause in the prefect handbook that says you have to always take her side? Is it unbreakable?”

“Merlin’s beard!” Lysander leapt off the bed and headed towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Forbidden Forest, so the first thing that wants to, can eat me!” 

James was silent, and they both just stared at one another for a moment. Then they burst out into laughter. “And they call me dramatic,” said James. Lysander bounded over and wrestled James off the bed and onto the ground.

* * *

The Gryffindor trials were not going well. Not even James could spin it to look optimistic, and he tried. Jake Lien fell off his broom nearly as soon as he’d mounted it and begged James to simply forget it. He was certain Jake had even attempted to Obliviate him while his back was turned.

Greer Wood had shown up… as a spectator, and she probably meant it to be cheeky, but it was a truly deep-cutting wound. She always insisted that she was ‘no good’ at Quidditch and that her father was massively disappointed by the fact, but James wouldn’t believe it. She had just as much Quidditch in her veins as magic.

As for the rest of the lot, the same could not be said. He considered bending the rules a bit and allowing Lily to play, but Gryffindor was already the poster team for modern nepotism, so it was best to not. At least Archie had done fairly well as Beater, but he was definitely going to need more one on one training to be pitch ready. It wasn’t his fault, though, as he was one of the only people trying out who had no way of practicing at home.

The prospective Chasers flew through the air on the pitch, attempting to run James’ new plays. Rose could faintly be heard overhead calling out moves and the occasional insult. 

“This is bad,” Roxanne said, just before Jake Lien nearly fell off his broom again. James pushed his glasses up to his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, Jake got worse.”

“We have to pick two of them,” replied James. He felt like he could close his eyes and point at any two and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. 

“Would’ve only had to pick one if you and Rose hadn’t blamed Monty for losing the Cup.” James didn’t feel the need to dignify that with a response. “But if you pick Jake, I’m going to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower.”

“Duly noted.”

“Maybe if I just catch the Snitch really quick every game, no one will notice we suck.”

Ultimately, James went with a second year, Wiley Perlman, who was surprisingly quick, but not extraordinarily coordinated, and a sixth year, Calista O'Connell, who promised to come to extra training sessions with Rose. Their new Keeper was last year’s alternate, Isabella Buckridge, who (thankfully) improved significantly over the summer holiday.

Still, the first day of practice was unusually humid, and the team was tiring quickly. Calista was missing every Quaffle thrown her way, and Wiley had been knocked to the ground several times by well placed Bludgers from Archie. _Well, at least Archie’s doing well._ But that was the full extent of his optimism. James had half a mind to call it quits, and rescind Gryffindor from the year’s matches. Instead, he excused Archie, Roxanne, and Isabella, and turned his focus solely onto the Chasers.

After another hour of practice, it was clear that they were not going to make any headway, and he excused the two new team additions, leaving only Rose behind.

“Should I have gone with Lien?” James asked. If he messed up the team in his first ever year as Captain, he was sure to get replaced. Worse, he’d never hear the end of it from his entire family.

“No, I think Roxanne would’ve gone mad,” Rose replied, mildly. They both took a seat on the grass and stared up at the goal posts. James groaned and threw his head into his hands. “There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“Whaddyou mean?” He mumbled through his hands.

“Even if we didn’t tell her off after the Cup, she wouldn't have come back.” James glared at her. She smiled sheepishly. “Fine, if _I_ didn’t tell her off. But whatever you said was worse, because she talked to me about the new dresses she saw at Gladrags over summer. Something about getting one for her parties, but now she can’t throw them anymore. 

Right, but not the point. What did you say to her that night, anyway?”

James threw himself onto his back, looking up into the cloudless, periwinkle abyss. “I don’t know!” 

Rose only hummed and laid on her back with him.

* * *

After several weeks of miserable practice, James was able to cheer up when Lysander lovingly reminded him that Quidditch Captains had access to the prefect bathrooms. He’d been so wholly consumed by the fact that Gryffindor was going to be completely obliterated by Slytherin within the first ten minutes of the first match. 

It certainly didn’t help his stress levels that every professor began to assign twice the amount of homework. At any given moment, James was drowning, and to make matters worse, Trelawney prophesied that ‘he would have to die to be reborn.’ That was not on his list of things to do for the term, so he proposed it wait until the next.

“I’m going to take a long bath,” he had said. “If I fall asleep, drown, and am reborn, so be it.”

“Yeah, maybe she was just suggesting you get baptized,” Lysander had responded.

So bathe he would, though he was growing nervous about if he would really be expected to be completely naked in front of any prefects or Captains, female or otherwise. But he decided it was best to replace any of his anxious thoughts with Worty Greenbolt’s most recent summer hit, “Bat Bogey.” It had taken James a few moments to quiet “Bat Bogey” enough to remember the bathroom’s password (sun beam), but he eventually got in just fine.

Despite it being well into the evening, stained glass windows still shone as if there was sun coming through, and James took note to look up how to do that to his windows back home. (Over holidays, he was fairly nocturnal and would like to have more light in his room.) An unrecognizable, but pleasant song bounced off the bathroom walls, which served to calm him. He smiled to himself, closed his eyes, and began to take off his shirt. For the first time all term, he was truly calm.

That was until a sharp cough startled him out of his quasi-meditation. Embarrassingly, he yelped and covered his chest with his hands. Wet and wrapped in a towel was Miss Montgomery Baird sitting on the ground next to a white and pink record player. 

“Sorry!” James moved one of his hands to cover his eyes and tried to blindly back out of the bathroom, running into a wall instead. This was not how he wanted his next battle of the wits to go, and he was already at a severe disadvantage.

“No need,” replied Monty, surprisingly nonchalant. He could never gauge how she was going to react to his presence. “Wearing a swimsuit.”

He removed his hand to see that she was wearing a white bikini… and frankly, that was not much better than nothing at all. James determinedly only made direct eye contact, which had a strong chance of looking even more suspicious. He just didn’t see why he had to run into her at the most inopportune times.

Still, she made no move to antagonize him. It had been several weeks since the last spoke, so perhaps that was the shelf life of her grudge. He could leave it and bathe in peace, though he’d have to do so in his boxers because it was increasingly clear to him that the prefect bathroom was, in fact, not a nudist space. But as he slipped into the bath, the Gryffindor in him couldn’t help but test the metaphorical waters as well.

“I’ve never heard this song before.”

“It’s a muggle song,” she replied, caution in her tone. “One of my grandma’s records from the seventies.”

“I like it.” James sunk deeper into the bubbles, only his head remained above water.

Monty eyed him, clearly unsure of what to say. He looked back and grinned, hoping he’d thrown her far enough off her course of determined hatred. It wasn’t the relaxation session he’d hoped for, but some reluctant company wasn’t the worst thing he’d dealt with all day. James closed his eyes to enjoy the music.

“You know this is your fault.”

James didn’t open his eyes. “I know.”

“You’re not going to argue?”

James sighed. “Not today.”

“Next time?”

He smiled, ruefully. “Yeah, next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I'd love a little kudos or comment. My brain's thoroughly fried, so if you've caught any mistakes that irk you, feel free to let me know!


	5. The Middle Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty is reminded that being the middle child can be isolating, but that comfort can be found in places you wouldn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one kind of moved quickly because I had a lot of content I wanted to comb through. I hope you enjoy!

In fairness, Monty probably should have seen it coming. Finch had bragged all of his fifth year about how unbelievably easy studying for O.W.L.S was, which should have been the brightest of red flags that fifth year was going to be the seventh layer of the infernal pit.

She spent the entire morning of Quidditch trials riddled with regret over not being out on the pitch, but within the first month of classes, it was clear that she wouldn’t have been able to find the time for practice. She could have dropped Frog Choir, but she would do anything to ensure that she stayed on top of Flitwick’s favorites list. But with that still on her plate, she really was finding it difficult to squeeze in any recreational time.

By mid-September, Monty suggested to Lysander that rounds be split in two, with each of them going in separate directions halfway through the evening. He was primarily against the plan, having historically been a routine victim of Peeve’s mischief, but conceded when she began to beg. She chalked that down as another win for the big, brown doe eyes. 

After their first rounds apart, Lysander returned from the sixth floor covered in an unidentified gooey grey substance. “It’s funny until it happens to you,” he shouted over Monty’s uproarious laughter.

“What even is it?” Monty asked, prodding at the dripping goo with the tip of her wand.

“I think my sanity’s better served not knowing.”

For the following week, she was sure Lysander would insist on sticking together for the entirety of rounds, but he seemed just as eager to finish them quickly and return to their coursework.

Yes, fifth year was proving to be the bane of everyone’s existence, and it was only bound to increase in severity. How anyone fifth year and up had found the time to show up to the Room of Requirement parties of years past, she didn’t know, but she was certainly very jealous that they had. In addition, her stress management was not aided by the countless students following her around the halls asking about her next party. They’d all grown too spoiled, and still, the people pleaser in her couldn’t help but promise that she’d try and work something out.

She’d have to talk to Professor McGonagall about her ideas for social gatherings, but that was a campaign for another week.

To make things worse, rounds were immensely boring, and she spent more time thinking about doing things than actually doing them. In her imagination, she’d already created a scenario where she was a superhero — like the ones from the movies she’d watch with her cousin on holidays — and she’d defend the school against evil alien wizards single handedly with her super strength and powers of flight. But then she’d remind herself that being a witch was probably stronger than a superhero anyway, and she’d have to invent a whole new character and daydream.

Monty preferred to take the lower floors of the castle during rounds, partially because Peeves seemed to frequent the fifth and sixth floors more by this hour of the night. Plus, the dungeons provided more of an air of danger that she began to so desperately crave. She was trying to imagine herself as a Victorian detective on the hunt for a serial killer, when she heard a bump and some shuffling coming from a nearby broom closet. Monty silently rejoiced at the confirmation that her job actually did serve a purpose. Uneventful rounds were starting to make her question the sanctity of the position. She yanked the closet door open, drawing her wand and shouting, “HA!”

Pale, slender fingers were entangled in the mess of dark black hair that had them against the closet wall. Scorpius Malfoy’s horrified grey eyes blinked back at her, slipping out and away from under the tanner skinned individual. Then a sparkle of light green caught her eye. Albus Potter. They all stood frozen in shock for a moment, before Monty yelped, slammed the broom closet door shut, and hurried away from the scene.

Thanks to her summer growth spurt, she was getting a lot farther down the hallway a lot faster than she normally would have in days long past. Were it nearly any other two individuals, she probably would have kept her cool long enough to take points away from Slytherin house, but dread weighed her stomach down as she realized that she just saw something she was very much not meant to see.

As if she’d summoned him, quick and heavy footsteps came following behind her. “Monty! Wait!” Albus called, in that loud whispering way one does when they’re both trying to be heard and trying extremely hard not to be. She briefly considered continuing down her path and avoiding the confrontation all together, but instead she turned around. Albus was bright scarlet in the face, either from fear or exhaustion, and nearly dry heaving. “Wait, Monty, I can explain! We were looking for… and then Scorpius thought he’d dropped a, uhh… so well, I tried to help him, but it was dark, and I, er, I tripped… and I caught myself from falling on the wall with Scorpius in between… and then you walked in. We shouldn’t have been out past curfew.”

Albus’ bright green eyes had welled up with tears, and she immediately knew that running away was the worst possible thing she could have done in that situation. Monty placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He looked down at it and sighed. “Please don’t tell James.” He sounded defeated, like all of the air had been sucked out of his lungs and replaced with lead.

Her heart deflated with it. “Don’t worry, Albus, I understand.”

Whether it was her tone of voice or some aspect of her body language that gave her away, she didn’t know, but Albus’ sharp eye latched onto it. Why’d he have to be the Potter boy with good eyesight? “You understand, or you  _ understand? _ ”

Monty really did not want to talk about it, especially not to an abject stranger. She liked Albus, sure, but they weren’t really close enough to be swapping traumas like chocolate frog cards. Yet, she knew that Albus’ devastated expression would haunt her for months if she didn’t give him some reassurance that everything would be okay. 

“I, um…” Monty searched the recesses of her mind for a version of the story that would still allow for her to adopt a casual tone. “Well first term last year, you know my brother Finch was Head Boy, but he was doing rounds, and he caught me in… well actually, the same closet you were in, with Ishani Kunwar. Probably shouldn’t tell you that. She’s in your house. But, yeah, we were… y’know, kissing. Nothing more than that really, but Finch caught us, took house points off, and we were never close before that, but he wouldn’t even look at me for the rest of term. 

I kind of thought that was that, but then we got into a huge fight about something or other over Christmas dinner. You know, Ravenclaws don’t like when they’re losing an argument, so he announced that he found me with Ishani, and uh… yeah, no one would really talk to me for the rest of the night. So… I guess he won? Dunno, wasn’t my worst Christmas though.”

Albus looked mortified, so it likely was not her most reassuring tale. “Do they talk to you now?”

“Yeah,” Monty was only partially telling the truth. “They won’t talk  _ about  _ it, but they were fairly pleased when I briefly dated Conor Knearnaught the next term. 

But, uh, moral of the story… you’re not alone, Albus, and your secret is safe with me for as long as you want it.”

Albus smiled at her, relief flooding his face. He wiped the bit of sweat that had formed on his temple, and together they walked in silence back to the Slytherin common room. It had felt rather nice, actually, to unload the burden of her experience to someone. In making Albus feel less alone, she also felt like she had more support in her corner. She hadn’t had that since last term, and her heart broke just a tiny bit at that.

“It’s funny, you know,” Monty said, breaking their comfortably established rhythm. “James was the only other person I told that to.”

She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to mention Albus’ semi-estranged brother. She’d noticed that they talked less and less as the years go by, but it seemed like something Albus should know. James had supported her once and was likely to support his younger brother as well. He wasn’t kind or considerate, but he wasn’t a complete monster either. But Albus tightened up next to her, no longer matching her pace.

“Our brothers have a talent for making us feel like we don’t belong, don’t they?” Albus’ voice was strained and quiet. He looked so small and fragile, and for the very first time, Monty realized just how young thirteen was. It was so easy to feel mature and indestructible back then, but on the outside looking in, thirteen was breakable.

They reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room in silence. While she normally liked to fill quiet moments with idle chatter, she found the situation to be best served with quiet contemplation. Monty turned to the boy, and carefully grabbed his hands. He looked up from his chosen spot on the floor, the wetness of his cheeks now apparent in the direct gleam of torchlight.

“If you ever need a friend,” she said, shaking his hands for emphasis. “You come straight to me, okay? Scorpius, too, wherever he went.”

Albus laughed and wiped his tears off with the corner of his robe. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” Monty said as she began to walk away. “Five points each from Slytherin for breaking curfew. Believe it or not, it’s less suspicious that way.”

Walking back through the empty dungeon halls, she no longer had an appetite to play pretend. Rounds were finished, and Lysander was sure to be waiting, but Albus’ words would not stop reverberating around in her head.  _ Our brothers have a talent for making us feel like we don’t belong.  _ Albus understood and really saw her, and she couldn’t tell whether that comforted her or terrified her. Lysander could wait a few minutes more.

Being completely alone with her thoughts was a dangerous gamble that Monty was not looking to take. All of the stress of fifth year activities had kept her from the Battle of Hogwarts portrait hall, a fact that was accompanied by immeasurable guilt. 

The hallway was brightly lit all hours of the day, with ceiling to floor portraits that all clamored and interacted with one another, seemingly never stopping to rest. It was a stark contrast to the sleepy, slow, and dull portraits of past Headmasters and mistresses in McGonagall’s office. While Monty always wondered if the Headmasters portraits were really sentient, the vivacious atmosphere of the previously departed veterans never called their consciousness into question.

As she walked through the hall, many of the portraits halted their conversations to greet her. She’d noticed over the previous years that several of the subjects had actually passed well before the Battle of Hogwarts, and the title of the portrait hall was merely a more succinct moniker. This was a detail that Monty’s peers did not care about, which was made evident by their casual lack of interest when she’d pointed it out. And she was not too prideful to admit that it was not her most riveting factoid.

She walked past both of James’ namesakes, who greeted her with their usual cheeky winks and waves, past Teddy Lupin’s parents, and all the way down to the seventeenth portrait on the north wall with a small plaque on the frame reading:  _ Phillip Finch Montgomery (27 July, 1981 - 2 May, 1998); Ravenclaw.  _ Looking back at her was a face that bore many similarities to her brothers, but a smile that directly mirrored her own.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,” said Phillip. He was often alone in his portrait, rarely ever seeming to have visitors and never visiting theirs. Phillip seemed to take stock of her expression. “Always seem to be outnumbered by Gryffindors.”

Another group of portraits (she suspected James Potter I and Sirius Black) cheered in the distance. Monty smiled. “I’m sure you could’ve been a great Gryffindor.”

“I was brave once,” he said. He gestured to his frame. “And look where it got me.”

It might have been a miserable existence to be confined to the realm of oil and canvas, enough so that it could have been better off if the portraits were not really them. That, Monty hadn’t considered before, and now she had a new thought to process in the night. Flitwick was sure to enjoy a lengthy after class discussion on the ethics of living portraits.

“How’s Mum and my sisters?” Phillip always asked this question, and it always hurt more to know that the three of them nearly never talked about him. He was a forbidden topic, as all deaths were.

“It’s Aunt Maggie’s thirty-fifth birthday this week,” she replied. She was unsure if portraits had a sense of passing time. “Mom’s… normal, but Nan’s memory is starting to go.”

“Mags? Thirty-five?” Phillip was pointedly ignoring the bad news. The Montgomery family trait. “Wow! So that means Minta’s already forty, then? Oh, do tell her that she’s old for me.”

Monty grinned, imagining the barrage of insults and punishments she’d receive from her mother upon telling her so. It was nearly enough to tempt her, but she’d rather not get a howler so soon in the school year. Perhaps she’d wait until forty-one.

There they chatted, the two middle Montgomerys, about every which thing. He gave her advice on the Charms portion of the O.W.L.S. She updated him on the current state of professional Quidditch (she actually drew quite the crowd for that one). And it was rather funny, wasn’t it, that the only member of her maternal end of the family that ever understood her was dead six years before she was born.

But the end of their conversation had to come much sooner than she would have liked. She would have been perfectly content to stay in the hall, surrounded by the never changing faces, but she’d left Lysander alone long enough.

“Monty, before you go,” Phillip said just after she’d made her goodbyes. “Your mum’s never dealt well with concepts she doesn’t understand. She always tries to change things to fit into her boxes. That’s not your fault.”

She might have well been the front page of the Daily Prophet with how easily she was being read these days.

* * *

Several days had passed without any incidents. She was seeing less and less of James and the rest, and more of the inside of the library. The humidity had begun to subside as a light autumn chill rolled in, and Monty smiled to herself as she decided that it was the perfect time to move her studies into the open air.

On occasion, Albus and Scorpius would join her by the Great Lake to get help on their Charms essays. Whenever Scorpius needed an answer or two for Herbology, Monty proved to be of absolutely no assistance. She did find, however, that tutoring the younger students helped her to remember some older coursework that had long abandoned her for the deepest darkest corners of her mind. Hopefully, some of the old lessons coming to light would serve her well in the impending O.W.L.S. If not, Monty had two newer, closer friends, and that was never going to be something she complained about.

On this particular Saturday, though, Monty had decided to take a well-deserved rest. 

In the fifth year girls’ dorm, Roxanne and Lucy were fighting. It had started over something as simple as a hairbrush, or possibly a scarf, Monty wasn’t exactly positive. It had started right at the crack of dawn, and woke her up from what was a rather peaceful dream about eating strawberry ice cream from a dragon’s back over the Atlantic. Niamh had appeared to abandon ship at some period before Monty had risen, and Greer was gleefully watching from her bed, throwing in the odd ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ as if she were a spectator of the greatest Quidditch match in all history.

So the well-deserved rest was decidedly not going to occur from the comfort of her own bed cushions. That was all well and fine, as Greer would have likely commandeered her for some energetic activity had she stayed even moments longer in the dorm. Living with all early risers was only pleasant on weekdays.

It was not her regular routine to get ready for the day in the prefects bathroom, as she was actually quite embarrassed to be seen in any state of near undress, but it was closer to peace than she was likely to get elsewhere. The bathroom glimmered with multi colors as the early morning sun shone through the stained glass. There was a pleasant quiet, emphasized by the occasional drip of a faucet, and Monty was filled with the familiar warm sensation of relaxation. It seemed that it was far too early in the morning for any of the others to be awake, and she was able to get fully ready without a single minute of human interaction.  _ Success! _

The rest of the morning passed without incident, as well, and Monty was sure it was meant to be a weekend of rejuvenation. She hadn’t checked up on the placements of constellations or planets for the weekend, but something must have been in the exact right place, and there were frosted pumpkin scones at breakfast. Everything was turning up Monty.

It was the perfect temperature for Monty’s preferred wear. She hated summer clothes and winter in Scotland grew so cold it could be unbearable. But this was the perfect weather for her favorite sweater, skirt, and tights combo, and it felt so much better to be out of uniform. She pulled her hair up into a high ponytail, her fingers catching on a knotted wave, and set out for a late morning walk.

The problem with relaxation days was that she had no idea what to do with herself. She was pretty sure relaxation implied doing nothing, but she was not a do-nothing type of girl. Long ago, she decided to rebrand the concept to doing things that were peaceful and allowed for her brain to focus without overanalyzing anything. This was one of the instances where being in muggle America was better than wizarding anywhere else. She could count on a pair of headphones and a playlist curated by one of her cousins to drown out her thoughts and simply live in the moment. Here, though, she had to find a way to achieve zen somehow else… and it was damn near impossible.

The crisp breeze nipped softly at her nose as she took to crunching as many fallen leaves possibly under her boot. She was sure she looked like the personification of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and she smiled at the sentimental images of snowed-in cabins of Christmases past with an unfractured family in the Rocky Mountains. She hoped that if she’d pictured it clear enough in her mind, it would come back… that he would come back. But when she opened her eyes, only the golden reflection of trees off the Great Lake stared back at her, and she was truly alone.

Monty considered walking past the edge of the forest, and opening herself up to dangerous exploration. That was bound to distract her from the feeling of her heart being squeezed through like a wet towel, but the thought of Hagrid’s mild disappointment upon finding her gored by a unicorn prevented her from venturing any further.

She continued her promenade around the perimeter of the Great Lake, wishing desperately that she could stop picturing her childhood. Nostalgia was the enemy of progress. At that moment, a familiar snowy figure bundled in layers of coats and scarves rounded the bend.

Monty could not have been more relieved, as she had been nearing tears, and she waved Lysander over. He picked up his pace to meet her in the middle of the path, but Monty could not mistake his look of unease that ran across his features.

“G’mornin’,” Lysander said, his tone suspiciously even. Monty nodded in greeting. “Out to gather your thoughts as well?”

“The exact opposite,” she replied, cheerfully. “Trying to not think a damn thing!”

“And how’s that going?”

“Miserably.”

Lysander nodded, and Monty continued to walk with him down the direction she originally came. It probably would have been in her best interest to have company while she walked in the first place. She tended to focus more on the movements of others, their breathing, mannerisms, the way they smiled, and that helped to distract her from her overwhelming loneliness. But then she remembered that no one paid attention to her that way, and she felt just a little bit more insignificant again.

“I actually was hoping to talk to you about something,” Lysander said, breaking Monty out of her miniature self-pity session. “But it can wait until rounds Tuesday.”

Lysander really looked like he was going to burst at the seams. “I’m happy to talk about it now, if you’d like.” Truthfully, Monty also just really hated to wait for information, especially when she knew it was coming. Surprise parties were her worst nightmare.

“Oh, uh,” Lysander averted his eyes to the fraying edge of his (poorly knitted) scarf. “Well, I was talking to Albus the other day — you know, I  _ know  _ — and he told me about how you saw him and Scorpius. He said you were really helpful and understanding, and that he really felt like you made him feel less alone. And, well, I was hoping you could make me feel less alone.”

Monty’s eyes wided, her mind a pendulum going between surprise and completely unfazed. “Oh, you’re… gay?”

Lysander shook his head, confusion contorting his normally elegant face. “I don’t know. See, the thing is, I don’t know if I can even be gay. I don’t think I’m… a boy very often, if that makes sense, but I know I’m not a girl. But then sometimes I feel very girl-like, so maybe I am?”

“I see,” said Monty. She was unsure if Lysander was looking for assistance or comfort. “So you’re both… or neither?”

“Somewhere in the middle, I think, or maybe on the outside.”

Monty glanced over, and Lysander looked terrified. Tears filled their usually evenly tempered blue eyes, and she held her hand out. Lysander looked down at her outstretched palm, a single tear going down their cheek, and took her hand in theirs. They looked up at her and smiled a watery, lopsided smile.

“I got you,” she said and gave their hand a tight squeeze. “Is this why you and Lorcan aren’t… y’know?” Lysander only nodded in response, their smile fading, and Monty could tell they were looking for a change of topic. “You, me, and Albus are the queerest trinity of shitty brothers.”

“James isn’t a shitty brother,” Lysander added, wiping their nose with their mitten. Monty looked on and laughed.

“It’s hardly October, how are you so cold?”

And hand in mittened hand, the Gryffindor pair continued on with their autumn morning walk, and Monty really did feel less alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take that, Joanne.


	6. Purple Hair and Mosquito Bites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James gets jealous over Monty becoming fast friends with Albus. Rose isn't a fan of it either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot longer than I meant it to, and I'm very sorry for that. Hopefully it was worth the wait!

James Sirius Potter was not a jealous young man. Not even a little bit. Not even when Roxanne and Monty got on the Gryffindor Quidditch team second year, and he didn’t. He did not storm up to his dorm and refuse to come out for two days, effectively missing an important Charms lesson that he’s never fully recovered understanding for. Not even then, because that’s what jealous people do, and James Sirius Potter was not a jealous person.

It did not affect him in the least to watch his friend-turned-quasi-enemy become close acquaintances with his baby brother that had not spoken a single word to him since the beginning of term. Albus was free to do whatever he wanted, with whomever he wanted, wherever he wanted, just like how he was free to ignore James. 

But he knew Monty was doing it just to get to him, that spiteful hag. It was probably in Albus’ best interest for James to involve himself in the false friendship. He was responsible for his well-being, both physical and emotional, and he knew his mum would hex him into next year if anything were to happen to either of his siblings. It would be chivalrous, gallant even, if he put himself in the line of Monty’s fire to protect his poor, defenseless brother.

“Are you done?” Lysander asked, not bothering to glance up from their History of Magic essay.

James was pacing in front of their bed, muttering to himself. He was not done. Albus was smart, so why couldn’t he see that Monty was playing him for a fool? It was so obvious, but somehow only to James. Unless… 

“THEY’RE WORKING TOGETHER!” James shouted, the regular… Merlin, he really could not remember the name of that muggle mystery novel to save his life. Lysander jumped at the shout, creating a harsh line of ink across their parchment. They finally looked up, murderous.

“Mate,” said Lysander, an eerie hush in their tone. “I don’t know how or when, but I am going to kill you.”

“Oh, bugger off!” James waved them off. He was growing sick of Lysander the Prefect and eagerly awaited the return of Lysander the Master Planner. James was not afraid to admit that he was not the brains behind most of his more elaborate conquests. In fact, he had pulled off only a few successful pranks without the help of a more organized individual.

Lysander was always the most accessible for prank planning due to proximity, but it was Roxanne that was the truest genius of Gryffindor house. No one could have expected less from the only daughter of Hogwarts’ legendary mischief king, George Weasley. But in the middle of third year, Roxanne had mysteriously given up her scheming ways for reasons even James did not know. For a while after, many assumed that she was lying low so she could pull off her biggest stunt yet, but after nearly two years, hopefuls began to lose faith.

Together, Lysander, Roxanne, and James created an unholy trinity of unparalleled brilliance, but since their betrayals, James felt rather abandoned. He was starting to feel like he was losing his credibility as a roguish troublemaker, and with the first Hogsmeade weekend on the horizon, it was not helping his dating chances. He had to do something big and bold to regain notoriety, and it might as well be aimed at his mortal (-ish) enemy.

“If I did something really big and really stupid,” began James. “Would you stop me?”

Lysander rolled their big, beautiful baby blue eyes. “I definitely won’t help you, and you know that you’re terrible at solo pranks.”

“Sounds like tacit endorsement to me!” And James was off to the races.

* * *

Lysander was correct. He was terrible at solo pranks. Two hours of brainstorming in the library proved to be useless. His definitive list consisted of:

  * _Purple hair… not her colour_


  * _Flood dungeon during her rounds (bonus point: bothers Slytherins)_


  * _Cast Muffliato on her so no one can hear her_


  * _Cats ???_



Needless to say, he had nothing. He was unsure whether he was relieved or annoyed when Rose’s familiar mess of red curls plopped down into the chair across from him. 

“I can’t believe you’re studying,” she said. James eyed her. “No really, I don’t believe you. What’re you writing?”

This was the moment of truth: was Rose Granger-Weasley more Granger or Weasley. “If I were hypothetically planning a hilarious prank against a certain former Chaser, would you be in or out?”

Rose scrunched her nose up, her usual thinking face, and James took that as at least a partial win. “Is this about Al?”

Still, James did want to show his full deck, so he chose to remain silent.

“Because I don’t like that they’re talking either.” She was a spiteful little one, indeed. She snatched the parchment out of his hand. “Let me see your list… I don’t hate the dungeon one, but it’s not enough to get them to stop spending time together. Think bigger.”

She shoved the list back in James’ hand, crumpling it a bit. Rose was terrifying, to be sure, and James wondered if maybe involving her was a mistake. He usually went too small with prank ideas, but Roxanne and Lysander were never malevolent in intent. Rose could be downright vicious when she wanted to be. He wanted to mildly inconvenience Monty, annoy her, gain the upperhand maybe, not completely destroy any hope of goodwill between them.

However, with Rose on his side, he quickly lost control of the plan. In fact, by the time the plan had gone into effect, he had next to nothing to do with any of it. He probably should have stopped it. He really should have stopped it because it was worse than he thought.

He had to admit it was an impressive sort of magic, no doubt well researched and poured over, but a cursed quill could have gone poorly in any which way. But it worked the way it was supposed to… which was not much better than if it had gone terribly sideways. 

Rose learned a good deal of personal information about Monty in the few days leading up to it, starting with small, but crucial details like when she met Albus to study, leading up to her biggest fears. (It was actually needles, but that wasn’t as useful.) 

During lunch, Rose took it upon herself to sneak into Monty’s book bag and switch her regular quill with the cursed one. James didn’t know the specifics of the action, possibly to maintain deniability, but he could not stop himself from ruminating on the Slytherin-ness of the plan all together. He grew uneasy.

On Thursday after classes, Rose and James decided to take a “spur-of-the-moment” stroll around the Great Lake, or so they told Lysander. It was overcast, just a touch windy, and the grounds were silent apart from the gentle rustling of leaves falling from the trees. 

Across the lake, Monty sat alone under a large oak, glasses perched on the edge of her nose as she scribbled ferociously with, unbeknownst to her, an extremely cursed quill. As Scorpius and Albus made their way towards her, James was filled with the type of dread that could only ever precede a reckoning. Rose bubbled with excitement next to him, and in that exact moment, James was positive that he was a part of something very, very bad.

The peaceful silence of late afternoon was soon pierced by a shrill shriek, followed by loud buzzing and two boys shouts. Each time Monty opened her mouth to scream or call for help, an angry swarm of mosquitoes flew clean out of her mouth. She clamped her hand trying to hold them back. Scorpius was caught in a swarm, trying and failing to hex the blood suckers away. Albus locked onto James’ gaze. _Oh, shit._

Rose doubled over, less human in form and more ball of orange curls. Of course, she found it hilarious, even as Albus sprinted in their direction with his wand drawn. James had half a mind to run away from the whole scene, but at least he’d hear Al’s voice for the first time in over a month.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Albus yelled. James was not sure if it was directed at Rose or him, but either way, he was just the smallest bit comforted by the familiarity of the phrase. “Have you actually gone mad? What did you do?”

“Calm down, Al,” Rose said, struggling to breathe. She wiped a stray tear from her eye, and flashed an easy grin. “Just a minor curse. It’s pretty creative, really. It only works when she talks in the presence of a Potter.”

Albus’ face contorted into shapes thought previously impossible. Al’s features were usually quite even in temperament, rarely ever stirred unless monstrously provoked. James couldn’t fight the intrusive thought that the red of Albus’ face was complimenting the green of his robes rather nicely, and momentarily considered suggesting that Al begin to wear blush.

Yes, this was not boding well for James. The idea of tracking down a time turner so he could go with “purple hair… not her colour” flitted through his mind for a moment, but it was certain that the damage had been done. Al turned to face him. 

“You,” said Al. His voice was dangerously low, and his eyes flashed in the same way their dad’s did when he was cross about something. “Why do you insist on ruining every good thing that happens to me? Is it not enough that you’re Harry Potter’s golden son? I’m still the disappointment, but you just have to make sure I have nothing at all.”

James felt an enormous stab of pain twist around his heart. “Albus, I—“

“No! It’s never occurred to you, has it, that Gryffindor might not always be the house of good guys. Sometimes, you’re all just senseless bullies.” With that, Albus turned away and took to storming back towards Monty and Scorpius, who were having a great deal of difficulty keeping the mosquitoes at bay. James began to follow suit.

“I wouldn’t go over there if I were you!” Rose called out to James, her voice hoarse from laughter.

“Someone’s got to get her to the hospital wing, and it’s best if I’m there to take the fall for it!” James responded over his shoulder. 

He picked up his pace, sprinting past Albus with legs considerably longer than the smaller boy’s. This was now the second time he’d broken his no running rule for one Miss Montgomery Baird, and both due to guilt. 

She was in such a state of horror that she did not attempt to fight his help, and James’ gut turned over when he realized that her makeup was running from tears. She just barely became blurry at the rate in which she was shaking, and frankly, she was a pitiful sight to behold. That did not encourage pride in James’ conscience.

On their way to the hospital wing, several students took to staring, and James was unsure if they had seen the calamity or not. A small group of Hufflepuffs looked on with concern, before breaking into whispers. _Leave it to Hufflepuffs to gossip._ Monty kept her hand sealed tight to her mouth, not daring to make a sound.

Cursing a prefect was probably justifiable cause for expulsion, and James made peace with that. He was destined to be wandless and useless, because he was not going to humor himself enough to pretend that he had a practical skill buried deep within his body. At least Albus could rejoice in that, knowing that he would not dare consider himself the family disappointment as long as James was dancing for knuts and sickles in Knockturn Alley.

The hospital wing was quiet and well near empty, housing only a small Ravenclaw boy nursing an injured ankle. This allowed for Madam Pomfrey to devote her full attention to the unfortunate situation at hand.

“Hi—” Monty stopped herself when a handful of mosquitoes buzzed into the open air. The Ravenclaw boy looked over in confusion and mild intrigue. James shooed him away.

“Right, well, hex, jinx, or curse?” Madam Pomfrey ushered the Gryffindor pair over to the closest cot and drew the curtains shut to avoid the prying eyes and ears of the Ravenclaw. She only spared a glance for James. “Thank you, Mr. Potter, for escorting Miss Montgomery here, but I’m afraid you must be off.”

James wondered if they were on a first name basis or if, as many professors tended, Madam Pomfrey had forgotten that Monty was not a Montgomery… well, she sort of was. It was all rather confusing to him, and apparently to the greater population of Hogwarts. Her mum likely did not think it through that far.

Monty shook her head, afraid to let the mosquitoes loose, and pointed aggressively at her mouth. She looked at him, her eyes wide in abject panic.

“Madam Pomfrey,” began James. “I don’t think she can talk much, but I’m happy to answer your questions for her. Er… it was a cursed quill.”

Madam Pomfrey only sighed and got to working on fixing the insect dilemma. James felt rather bad for Madam Pomfrey. He found her job to be thankless, as many students took her care for granted, himself included. He’d spent many a weekend in the hospital wing, often from Quidditch injuries, but he was no stranger to a spell gone wrong either. He shifted uncomfortably under his weight, grappling with his own carelessness in appreciating the hospital wing’s matron.

It only took about half an hour to undo the curse, but James suspected that the curse would have worn off sometime soon after anyway. Monty was very cautious in her approach to speaking again, for which James could not fault her. Even still, he braced for impact, as she was sure to rat him and Rose out now. He would, of course, valiantly assume full responsibility for the prank so as to protect Rose from eternal damnation. That was something he could live with as he inevitably shook his biscuits for spare change behind Borgin and Burkes for the rest of his life.

“Now, just how did this happen, Miss Mont— excuse me,” Madam Pomfrey corrected herself and cleared her throat. “Miss Baird?” 

At least James got his answer.

“A prank from my older brother, Madam,” Monty responded. James had to admire how she was able to lie with such ease. “He’d been doing things like this all summer. I thought the quill was a gift from my mother. I’ve been meaning to tell you that she says hello.”

Madam Pomfrey smiled at that, before subtly eyeing James in suspicion. He could not blame her. “Do see that she gets rest, Mr. Potter.”

He saluted in response, which even he could admit was inappropriate for the situation. Monty sprung to her feet and took towards the door with haste, all so quickly that James had to rush to follow.

As soon as they got into the hall, James turned to her. “You covered for me.” He wasn’t sure if he was confused or relieved.

“It wasn’t for you,” Monty bit back. She did not stop, but continued down the hall with a sharp stride. James hated how much he had to keep chasing her around. “It was for the game on Saturday. If Gryffindor lost because you and Rose were punished, do you really think they’ll blame you? I’m protecting myself. Don’t know if you noticed, but we’re not exactly the house known for their critical thinking skills.”

For that, James had no argument. It was true that his peers often followed popular opinion blindly, and he would not put it past a handful of them to target Monty again in the event of another devastating Quidditch loss. 

“If it’s any consolation,” said James. Whether he was lightening the mood or getting deeper under Monty’s skin, he couldn’t be sure. “Gryffindor isn’t going to win anyway.”

It was not any consolation. She swiveled on her heel to face him. “God! What is wrong with you?”

“This feels like a loaded question.”

“What did you even gain from this?”

James sighed and pushed his glasses up to his forehead to pinch the bridge of the nose. “I finally got my brother to talk to me, mate.”

“Yeah, and what about me?”

“Collateral damage.”

“You’re a dick.”

“I put mosquitoes in your mouth, and the best you can come up with is ‘you’re a dick?’”

“I’m so sorry that my argument isn’t up to your standard. My tongue got bit by a mosquito, and it itches. You know what? No. Fuck you.”

He laughed. “Getting warmer.”

“You want me to do better? Fine, you’re a shitty brother, and Albus doesn’t talk to you because you’re an awful person. Merlin on a broom, I don’t know how I was ever friends with you.”

James only shrugged and smiled, and he knew the lack of verbal response would only serve to drive her insane. With that, he turned away from her and headed down the hall again towards the common room. He could hear her huff in indignation behind him, but her footsteps did not follow suit.

Truthfully, her comment stung just ever so slightly. Maybe he was a bad brother, possibly even a terrible person. He’d have liked to think he was a decent man at least, but it seemed as if the popular vote was held against him.

But he pushed the thought out of his mind, and instead chose to focus on the (questionably) epic prank for the ages. If that wouldn’t get people talking about him, he didn’t know what would.

The Gryffindor common room greeted him with gross indifference. Hogwarts had an indescribable quality of disappointing him around every corner. Recently, being a Potter was not pulling enough weight, so he felt the urge to announce himself. _That’s not what popular people do._ But perhaps it was time for him to accept that he was no longer popular. He was washed up, tired, and immeasurably boring now. Who needed him? Certainly not Al.

The chatter amongst his peers (his pride as he liked to call them… _lion puns_ ) was dull and vibrated across the room without any significant spikes in volume. Nothing about the scene pleased his senses enough to convince him to remain.

The trek from the entrance of the common room to his dorm was perilous, indeed, but a necessary journey to avoid getting sucked into a round of chess with the ever emotionless Sandrina Sullivan. He never won against her, and it was starting to get pathetic. As he crossed the door into freedom, he was met with the unsettling boom of his best friend’s voice.

“Potter!” Lysander did not sound pleased. Yup, James was dead. “Tell me, do you know how to get rid of cursed mosquitoes? Because I do.”

Lysander’s pale skin was cooked pink and their eyes swirled and turned over like the sea. James had seen Lysander mad before, but only a handful of times, and never, ever directed towards him. He had no expectation for how this would play out.

“Sander, my dearest!” James fiddled with the sleeve of his robe, doing anything in his power to avoid eye contact. “Albus got your help, then, eh?”

Their dorm was otherwise abandoned, and he could only assume that Lysander had shooed the rest of their roommates out in preparation for this confrontation. It was unlikely that it took much persuasion for the other three to avoid them. It was all for the better, though, as Archie was really the only other one with whom James enjoyed spending time.

“When you said you were going to do something stupid,” said Lysander. “I thought you’d do something ridiculous and small like dye her hair purple.”

“It’s just not her colour,” James agreed.

“You know, Albus not talking to you had nothing to do with her.”

James was having far too many deep conversations in a day for his liking. If Lysander had simply listened to him in the first place instead of focusing on a stupid essay that could potentially impact their future careers, there would have been no mouth mosquitoes at all. Maybe flooding the dungeon would have been approved, but no, James was forced to go to his last resort. It just so happened that his last resort may or may not have been a sociopathic demon wearing his cousin’s skin as a suit.

“Mate, I don’t know what else I was supposed to do. Imagine if I started hating you for a reason I wouldn’t tell you, and then I turned around and started spending all of my time with Lorcan.”

Lysander sighed and sat on the edge of their bed. “James, I get it. I really do, but acting like a child won’t make Al talk to you. The pranks were fun when we were kids, but we’re older now. It’s time to grow up.”

He hated when Lysander was right, especially when that meant he was very deeply in the wrong. James didn’t feel old, and fifteen didn’t seem old, but every once in a while, leaving Hogwarts was staring him right in the face. 

James groaned and flopped backwards onto his bed. “Being old sucks!”

Lysander smiled softly, and that was the end of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally meant to include a whole other major event in there, but I guess it can wait until next chapter. :)


	7. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day has come for the event of the season: Gryffindor and Slytherin facing off in the epic match to define a decade. Only, Monty has no intention of spending her Saturday watching James and Rose fly about the pitch, so she doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now several days later than I meant to post, but hopefully with the word count you can imagine why.

Saturday was crisply sunny, in that juxtaposed cool but warm way that only seemed to come with autumn weekends. The cloudless sky gave the sun a perfect opportunity to suck up the dew that had formed on the grass overnight. It was all together the ideal conditions for sporting, and Monty had no intention of being a part of it.

As lovely as it was outdoors, getting any work done, school or otherwise, outside was going to be impossible on a Quidditch match morning. This had never been an issue before in the past, as Monty had either watched or played in every match since her first year. She was, however, quite a big fan of firsts, and this was to be her very first time not attending a Qudditch match.

It was all rather freeing, if she did say so herself (and she did, many times). She didn't sleep much the night before in anticipation of all the things she could get done around the castle while practically the entire school would be at the pitch. Gryffindor versus Slytherin was the event of the year, attracting members of all houses in a way no other match ever managed. 

After the war, most thought that the animosity between Gryffindor house and Slytherin house would dissipate, leaving room to build a new future with all houses united in solidarity. What those many failed to take into account was that the end of a war would not be enough to unite two houses sworn to hatred for the past 800 odd years. They were two houses, both alike in pompousness, and never to be truly on one another’s side. 

Monty supposed the rivalry was more superficial now than it probably was before. Blood purism was a quieter belief now, even among Slytherin house, so the differences between Gryffindor and Slytherin were more just in the traits each valued. 

It was not altogether uncommon for the Sorting Hat to be stuck between placing one in Slytherin or Gryffindor. In fact, it was both possible and probable that the tension between the two houses was less a matter of difference and more a matter of similarity. Not so much in value, but in temperament, Monty found. If she were being honest — and she wouldn’t mind doing so in this case — Monty would have been just as pleased with being a Slytherin as Gryffindor… which, again, probably made her mostly Hufflepuff. It didn’t matter much any which way, not a lot of use in contemplating what-ifs.

Not going to the match was hard. She really did love Quidditch, and despite a less-than-tepid reception from her house after the Cup last term, she still loved her team. Who she did not love, though, was James S. Potter and Rose Whatever-Her-Middle-Name-Was Granger-Weasley, and their drones off blood sucking demons that had only spewed from her mouth two days prior. Those two she would not support, even if that meant she was not able to cheer on Roxanne and Archie. It was what it was, she guessed.

Nevertheless, she was excited to finally have time to focus on enchanting her aunt’s old CD player. She had abandoned the project approximately two weeks ago to focus on not miserably failing at Herbology, and she was not succeeding. So she had decided that this Saturday would be a treat day, where she would pour her energy into doing something she enjoyed. This was, apparently, a different type of day than her relaxation day. She considered designating Saturdays as self-care days, and she would certainly ruminate more on the subject, but for now, it would be taken on a week by week basis.

The library was empty, save for Madam Pince. Somehow it was not as silent as one might think. Books flew from shelf to shelf, re-sorting and re-organizing themselves. Monty’s eyes strained as she searched for any aerial guide that would assist her in the quest of figuring out how to enchant the previously unenchantable. Instead, she just ran face first into a soaring copy of Lorinda Holmgren’s  _ Veel-à-vis: A Complete Guide to Relations with Veela.  _ Why the Hogwarts library would have such a sexually charged book, who could say, but Monty suspected that it was more in demand from professors past than students.

Dissecting machinery was not her favorite pastime by any means, especially when she found that she could not fully grasp how the technology worked. Over summer holiday, Monty spent countless hours on the Augurbury library computers researching the intricacies of laser theory. If she was getting close to understanding, she would not have known. Joel ratted her out to their mother during the last week of July after finding some of her poorly hidden notes. The vast majority of her notes were written in hidden ink — a gift and last remaining positive connection to one Rose Granger-Weasley — but it had run out just three days before then, leaving the rest of her notes wildly exposed.

In punishment, Monty was forbidden to venture into Augurbury (the muggle town down the hill from Montgomery Hall) and likewise all other majority muggle cities. Her only outings were family trips to Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Finch’s work tour of the Ministry, and her one solo Floo to Greer’s to listen to a radio broadcast of the Quidditch World Cup with the Wood residence.

She was not sure if it was her frequent contact with muggles or the study of something non-magical that really tipped her mother over the edge, but either way, she was not the family favorite of the summer. She actually never was the family favorite on the Montgomery side, but that was neither here nor there. Regardless, she spent the remainder of summer being the direct target of Finch and Joel’s taunts, Aunt Magdalena’s chidings, and her mother’s endless barrage of insults. She could take the occasional solace around her grandmother, but that was only because her memory was too far gone to know who Monty was. Being the family disgrace during the school months was not a difficult feat, but holidays were growing to be most unbearable.

It was funny, she thought, that the Montgomerys found her to be so disappointing. Her own vanity and ego aside, Monty found herself to be of considerable intelligence and achievement for her age. She was equally as academic, athletic, and socially respected as her two brothers. But, as everything did with the Montgomery line, it all came down to appearances. The young Montgomery Baird, despite her given name, was more Baird than Montgomery, more American than British, and ultimately more muggle than witch. 

Many witches and wizards had affinities for muggle points of interest, otherwise there would be little need for Muggle Studies. Even if they didn’t, her enjoyment of anything non-magical was a secondhand hodge podge of paternal family engagement, rarely ever sought out by herself. She found it extremely close-minded and purist that her own family would fault her for caring about a side of her that she did not get to choose.

_ Whatever. _

Her cousin, Lexi, had found the CD player in her closet the summer before last, and since she was able to listen to her playlists on her phone, she decided Monty would like it. Together, Lexi, Monty, and Lexi’s little brother Cole, learned how to burn CDs so that Monty could play their summer favorites during the school year. 

It was now well over a year later, and Monty was not much closer to figuring out how to get the damn player to work.

Her record player, which was far simpler in both design and technological advancement, did not take half so long to figure out an enchantment for. Granted, her work on the record player had somewhat of a guide to follow, as it had been done before. CD players went uncharted and unenchanted, thought to be impossible to work around magic. Maybe that was correct. She’d been destroying and repairing the stupid thing for a year, and nothing was coming of it. All she’d figured out was that the spell  _ tersus seorsum,  _ primarily used for autopsies, was very effective in disassembling machinery.

“Damn it,” Monty groaned, loose pieces of CD player clattered down onto the desk from their place in the air. Somewhere in the ether, Madam Pince shushed her. She didn’t know why, as there did not seem to be another soul meandering about the library.

Or so she thought. “Having trouble with something?” A soft voice said from a shelf behind her. Monty almost jumped clean out of her skin, nearly letting out a yelp before remembering the sharp ‘shh’ she had received only moments before.

Natalia Truitt slipped into Monty’s line of sight, her (seemingly) miles-long brown waves pulled into a messy ponytail with her wand sticking out from the tie. It was only sitting down that Monty realized Natalia was taller than she, standing somewhere around the five-eight mark, and still her presence felt demure and understated. Were Monty to have not sworn off dating to focus on O.W.L. prep, she imagined she would have tried a lot harder to flirt with and impress Natalia. Friendship would do fine though, she mused. Natalia did not seem to share the same keen interest anyway.

“I hope you know those things went out of style ten years ago,” Natalia laughed and pointed at the swirling mess of nuts and bolts suspended just above the table.

Monty playfully rolled her eyes and flashed her most dashing smile. Well, a little flirting wouldn’t kill anyone. “It’s not out of style, it’s vintage.”

Natalia nodded towards the seat across the table, wordlessly asking if she was encouraged to sit and continue the conversation. Monty really did want to work, but her social needs were a strong contender. What she had not considered before, though, was that she did not have to try and figure this all out by herself. Two fifteen-year-olds with objectively limited knowledge about all things magical was better than one, she always said. So she nodded in return, and Natalia officially joined the party.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Natalia pulled toward her Monty’s battered, note-ridden copy of Izumi Kajiyashiki’s ever-so-riveting text _A Recent_ _History of Magic and Technological Advancement,_ which arrived at the conclusion that magic and technology would never successfully interact. “Merlin, this is a lot of notes.”

“Well, everything I’ve read so far says no,” Monty said. “I’ll figure it out, though.”

Natalia continued to skim through Monty’s copious notes, including the several yards of notes that were once written in hidden ink, but now delightfully on display. However, Monty imagined her spidery handwriting did not make them any easier to read. “Has anyone ever said you’d make a great Ravenclaw?”

Monty felt like gagging, but opted for the marginally more appropriate grimace.

“Oh, right, I forgot about your brothers!” Natalia only hinted at a smile. It was quiet for a moment. “No offense, but I really hate your brothers.”

Monty let out a loud snort, prompting another aggressive shush from Madam Pince. She imagined Pince was not exactly chuffed by the CD player murder scene either. 

“They’re just so arrogant, you know?” Natalia continued, quieter now. Monty did in fact know. “First year, I told Finch that I’d seen him around Augurbury and how I was always so jealous of the big house on the hill. Want to know what he said? He said, ‘I don’t pay any attention to the muggles in town,’ in the world’s shoddiest British accent, mind you.

Joel’s not half so bad, I guess. Can’t go more than a minute without fixing his hair. Always has something negative to say about something or other. He’s not exactly bright, though, is he? He can’t hold a conversation if his life depended on it. Doesn’t exactly scream Ravenclaw to me.”

None of which Monty could argue with. Natalia was perceptive. “Yeah, and what about me?” Ay, an incorrigible flirt indeed.

Natalia narrowed her (lovely) blue eyes and brought her hand to her chin in thought. She hummed ever so quietly. “The arrogance is there, for sure.”

Monty scoffed in surprise, before both girls broke into laughter. This time Madam Pince rounded the corner to shush them with more gusto and vigor, apparently. The pair smiled in sheepish apology before continuing to snicker with one another.

Even with Natalia’s watchful eyes, the case of the enchanted CD player was no nearer to being solved. Natalia was very close behind Monty in terms of talent in Charms, though her arrogance would not allow her to deem them truly equals in the subject. After another hour or so of poking and prodding at the damned thing, they decided to call it a day on that. Frankly, she had not been keeping close track of the time, choosing instead to indulge in the pleasant company of a new friend.

Their signal to leave was that the library had become warmer with the buzz of the student body spilling in for afternoon studying. This, of course, must have meant that the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match had ended, and Monty looked resolutely at her feet to avoid knowing who won. She preferred to find out by energy from the common room, though it usually ended up a party regardless of if the team won or not.

Natalia and Monty walked closely side by side, with Monty using Natalia’s shoes as a guide for where she was and where they were going. The halls were boisterous, every once in a while a person whooshing by her to chase or be chased, but she was grateful that enough people were talking about separate aspects of the game at the same time so that she could not differentiate what was being said. The one thing she could pick out from the chatter was that both teams were equal in poor showmanship, and her arrogance and pride allowed her to be just a touch happy at that.

From the looks of the tile shape below her feet, they were rounding by the Great Hall. Her stomach growled at the thought of a warm, fulfilling meal. Just as she was about to suggest lunch, a ringing voice cut through the hundreds of other student’s voices that had grown otherwise monotonous. “Natalia and Monty, the two most lovely prefects I could hope to see!”

Sade strode over, measured, confident, but still friendly. Her hair was different than when Monty had last seen her, no longer in several braids, but now a shoulder length crown of dark natural curls. She was dressed warmly, in her Hufflepuff team sweater, and Monty remembered the many times that Sade mentioned getting cold easily. According to her, double Potions was impossible to sit through.

As Sade neared, Natalia’s already pink-toned skin turned a striking shade of red, and she averted her gaze to the ground as Monty had done earlier. When Monty greeted their Hufflepuff counterpart, Natalia remained stone silent, though Monty could have sworn she had heard a slight terrified squeak in the back of the Ravenclaw girl’s throat. It occurred to Monty that she never had seen Natalia and Sade hold a conversation of considerable length, and it was very clear that Monty and Natalia were, indeed, never meant to be, not that she minded that too terribly.

“Sade, the only Hufflepuff worthwhile to talk with!” Monty supposed she might have been too loud, as a seventh year Hufflepuff girl turned to glare at her. “Whoops.

Anyway, how are you? Don’t tell me who won, I’m waiting to get back to the common room and see if James Potter is crying tears of agony or joy.”

Sade mimed zipping her lips, and the three continued down the corridor and past the Great Hall. Monty’s stomach gurgled in disappointment. “All I’ll say is that neither team will be much of a threat to us for the Cup this year. I suspect with Finch gone, Ravenclaw won’t be either. Everything’s turning up Hufflepuff, I should think. Gryffindor really could have used you out there, though.”

“What can I say?” Monty shrugged. “They don’t know what they’ve got ‘til it’s gone.”

Sade laughed and linked her arm through Monty’s,. At that Natalia looked up, her usually almond eyes now wider than a full moon. Monty knowingly raised her eyebrow at her, prompting a playful pout from Natalia. In solidarity, Monty linked her other arm through Natalia’s, and the three made their way down the corridor.

They were nearing Gryffindor Tower, and though they were just meandering about for conversation’s sake, Monty never could resist an opportunity to play matchmaker. Just as she was about to set the pair loose, they were met by the grimace of their missing fifth year girl’s prefect. 

Mariana Caticovas looked from Sade and Monty’s linked arm up to Monty and sneered. Perhaps if Mariana was not several inches shorter than the other three, she would have been a touch more intimidated, but alas it was not the case. Mariana did not make any comment, however, but did choose to push through Sade and Monty’s connected limbs instead of walking around them.

“You know, she never did like me,” Sade said. Her usual easy smile was replaced with a hard set frown, and her eyebrows furrowed together in a way that Monty had not seen her do before. All the while, she still managed to look like a romantic portrait of a young woman with a lost lover. Sometimes it grew infuriating.

“I don’t know if she likes anyone,” Natalia responded. Monty fought the urge to applaud her immense courage and made a mental note to knight her as an honorary Gryffindor at a later date. “But she definitely hates Monty.”

Monty released Natalia’s arm, and she rushed in front of them to give a series of dramatic bows. The other two, quick to catch onto the joke, clapped and mockingly cheered for her. “Please, please! I cannot possibly handle the praise!” Monty bowed again, almost falling forward. She straightened up and adjusted her skirt with her signature smirk. “And with that, I get to see if James Potter is crying.”

Natalia looked between Sade and Monty, her eyes once again wide with panic. Monty winked at her, before turning to the Fat Lady.

* * *

Gryffindor won. Their team was rough, to be certain, but evidently Slytherin was even worse. How that was possible, no one could say, but somehow with all the ambition and resourcefulness in the world, no one on the Slytherin team could hit a Bludger or toss a Quaffle to save their life. From the sound of it, Sade had underplayed what an unmitigated disaster the whole game was. Monty could not have been more distraught to have missed the whole farce.

Worst of all, James Potter was not crying. The whole common room was flooded with uproarious laughter and exuberance, no doubt to compensate for the lack of real talent shown in the game. Illegally smuggled alcohol was easily passed through the crowd, and despite her prefect position, Monty chose to only halt the underaged drinking of students under their fourth year. 

She was sure that the rules would demand that she stop the whole party all together, and certainly not engage in any firewhiskey consumption herself, but watching Jake Lien chug a whole flask while balancing on one foot on the couch in front of the fireplace must have been a sign for her to let loose. She’d been aggravatingly uptight the whole term, desperate to please her professors, but old habits die hard. That night, she decided to let the old Montgomery Baird come out and play.

Roxanne, Greer, Lysander, and Archie were standing around the long couch in the back left of the common room, still in the fray of things, but far enough away where they were not being smothered by the mass of intoxicated teenagers.

Roxanne, often acting as the leader of the pack anyway, was the keeper of the flasks. She was around Monty’s height, but a bit thinner, and her light copper-brown skin was dusted with freckles on an otherwise spotless complexion. The first four years at Hogwarts, Roxanne kept her curls long and flowing, not paying much mind to styling beyond tying it up for flying and Potions, but over the summer she had elected to buzz her hair as short as she could. It suited her perfectly. Everything did, in fact, as Roxanne never made a single move without expressing the utmost confidence, whether it was always genuine or if there were moments where it was performative, Monty did not know.

Greer next to her — the tiniest thing — barely scratched five feet, and every feature she had was just as small, except for her eyes, which were round and doll-like. She almost always had to look up when speaking to someone, which likely aided in her ability to get away with anything. She stared up in admiration and awe as Roxanne spoke, her doll eyes sparkling with something Monty could only place as unadulterated love. Monty knew Greer had a crush on Roxanne since third year, based purely on observation alone, but it was evident now that it ran far deeper.

Archie was on the other end of the group, just to the left of Lysander. He had a very dashing smile, which only grew more inviting and attractive as they all grew older. The firelight flickered against Archie’s deep, jewel brown skin, highlighting the intoxicating nature of his smile and the joy in his eyes. He and Roxanne were ribbing off of one another, laughing and commanding the ambience of the space, as the middle two listened on. Upon closer inspection, though, it was clear that Lysander was not registering a single word spoken, only staring intently at Archie’s recently acquired muscular frame.

_ Is anyone in this school straight?  _ And it was clear she would have her matchmaking skills cut out for her.

She considered letting the four be, giving them time to spend with one another. Then, one of the flasks in Roxanne’s possession — wildly flung about as she recanted her harrowing journey of catching the Snitch earlier in the day — glinted against the light of the fireplace, beckoning Monty forward.

“Oi, Baird!” Roxanne cheered, clapping her hands together and nearly causing the flask to fly forward. Monty caught it and threw back a large swig. “Oh, thank Merlin! I thought you were going to shut the whole thing down.”

“Death to Monty Baird the Prefect,” Archie added, though the two had never been particularly close. “Long live Messy Monty!”

Greer and Lysander whooped in agreement, and Monty stuck her tongue out before taking a few more swigs. “If any of you tell McGonagall, I’ll gut you.”

Her body had been out of practice in alcohol tolerance, so perhaps she overdid it just ever so slightly. It was not in her favor that she had missed lunch and was running on a practically empty stomach, either. ‘Messy Monty’ was a Gryffindor icon in years past, as she’d lose all pretense of a filter and answered everything with complete candor. It was all good and well, unless her temper was also provoked. All she had to do was stay away from James Potter, and she’d be fine.

She was chatting up a storm to Lysander, who was still indisposed by the presence of Archie Wright’s magnificent muscles, when a heavy arm was slung over her shoulder, separating her from her blond companion. James was equally as drunk as she, if not moreso, and clearly was not cognizant that any interaction between them was eons too soon.

Monty shrugged his arm off, not before acknowledging that he, too, had gained quite a bit of muscle mass. His body was radiating with heat, either from the firewhiskey in his system or from the general compactness of bodies upping the temperature of the room. 

He was getting taller by the day, Monty thought, and it was growing frustrating that she was not only no longer taller than James Potter, but now significantly shorter. She was not proud of it, in fact she was actually quite angry about it, but James was becoming one of the most physically attractive people in their year. His jawline was becoming sharper, and his normally golden tan skin was getting darker with age, unlike his siblings who inherited the complexions of their mother’s side of the family.

But she chalked the mild attraction up to being drunk, and that was why she enjoyed partying in the first. Any unsavory thoughts could be blamed on the firewhiskey, and any thoughtless action could be cast aside come the morning. Were she even a single shot deeper, she’d have probably leaned into James’ warm embrace, but she was still enough about her wits to shove him off. He stumbled into Lysander, who in turn bumped into Archie, and Monty took Lysander’s blush and Archie’s nervous laugh as a form of success.

“Wh’ was tha’ for?” James was far drunker than Monty, that much was clearer now. He pushed up his glasses to wipe at his bleary eyes. “I was only trying to be kind, Miss Montgomery.”

Were they to be friends, it might have been a cute action, but they were not, and therefore it was not. “Bugger off, Potter.”

“I like it when you’re drunk ‘cause you sound like one of us.”

Monty stiffened, straight as a board now, and she remembered exactly why they were not friends at all. She became more aware of her accent and her tongue no longer felt like it belonged in her mouth, and the remnants of mosquito bite were not helping.

Even in her drunken state, Monty decided the best road to take would be the high one, and turned around to walk towards another group. There weren’t many groups for her to choose from. She was not close enough friends with anyone her senior, and while she used to be close with Rose (and Rose’s friends by extension), that was no longer an available option.

Lucy, Niamh, Leland, and Miles were sitting quietly at a table on the other side of the room, books open and clearly discussing classwork. Monty was not surprised, as they tended to be a dull bunch, and she often wondered what in Merlin’s good name compelled good ol’ Sorty to put the lot in Gryffindor. Still, as confident as she could be with wobbly legs and impaired vision, she sauntered over to the group and plopped down in the seat between Lucy and Miles.

Lucy glanced at her, head to toe, before sighing. Lucy was often put out by Monty’s presence. “Not very appropriate, is it, to drink as prefect. How will the others respect your authority now?”

Monty looked over to where Jake Lien was performing drunken cartwheels. “I think they’ll manage.”

“We were discussin’ somethin’ private, actually,” Niamh added, pointedly looking away. 

“I’m great at keeping secrets!” Monty desperately wanted to be away from James Potter and his enormous, enticing, evil muscles.

“No, you aren’t,” Miles retorted. First year, Monty had accidentally let it slip to James that she’d seen Miles’ underwear, turned pink by a bad load of laundry. He had teased Miles for it for a full year, unrelenting until Lysander and Leland intervened.

Monty was in no mood to argue, and as much as she’d have liked to stay where she was not wanted, the combined heat of every Gryffindor body, firewhiskey, and the nearby fireplace was growing too much to handle. The thing she often forgot until she was in too far deep was that drinking made her sensitive and emotional. She had not remembered that until she walked away from the other four Gryffindor fifth years and felt tears prick at her waterline, threatening to be exposed.

It was time to turn in, surely that’d be for the best. The room was becoming a blurry, spinning mass of scarlet, gold, and stone, and Monty was finding it harder to navigate through it all. Her breathing was becoming labored, and the tears in her eyes screamed for release. All of the chants, shouts, and laughter from her peers were rising in volume, impossible to decipher and tedious to be stored in the brain, and all Monty wanted was out, out, out. 

Just as she seemed to gain footing and directional advantage, the unmistakable boom of James’ voice silenced the rest of the mob. “To the Gryffindor team! Despite all the naysayers — though there were many — we won. I won’t take all the credit as Captain. I’d like to, but I won’t. Today was proof that we didn’t need Armfelt, or Moreland, or the rest of the old team.” James paused and looked directly at Monty, then winked. “It’s outstanding what we can achieve on the pitch without the interference of Madam Ilvermorny herself, Montgomery Baird.”

James lifted his flask to signify the end of the toast, and much of the rest of the common room broke out into hoots, hollers, and cheers.

That was the final straw. The camel’s back had finally snapped and so had Monty. Rage was not bubbling, not at all like a slow boi, but rather like a spark that ignited a wildfire. She felt near blind, the tears streaming down her face in hot wrath.

She wanted to punch him, hex him, possibly even Cruciatus him, and she’d feel more than vindicated in doing so, but she knew she had to hit him where it really hurts. 

Monty practically flew over to James, who was standing in all his pride and glory on top of the couch cushions. He noticed to fury, it was unmistakable and he’d been the recipient of it many times before, and hopped down to meet her, grinning all the while.

“Nice to see you again, Baird. How’s the tongue?” 

Maybe murder would be justified.

“How disappointing it must be,” Monty began, her voice dripping with venom, ready to inject, “to be the famous Harry Potter and have your oldest son turn out to be nothing more than an unseasoned version of yourself, with half the talent and less than a quarter as interesting.”

“Do us a favor, Baird, will you?” James laughed her comment off. “Continue to stay away from the pitch when we play. Turns out you’re a bit of a bad luck charm.”

Sometimes trying to figure out James Potter was beyond any who tried. He was constantly swinging between seeming genuine in trying to befriend her again and being utterly vile as a person could be. He was constantly luring her into a false sense of security, being jovial one moment, and cursing her mouth to spew mosquitos the next. The fact of the matter was that Monty did not deserve the torment. All of this was over — what — quitting Quidditch and a single detention. It was cruel and unusual punishment, and no one else seemed to like her well enough to defend her. 

“Oh, Merlin, Montgomery,” James sighed dramatically. “No need to cry over it. You were a replaceable Chaser. It happens.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“This is — what — the fourth time you’ve asked me that this week?”

James was a vicious drunk, and were Monty not also under the influence, she might have been more forgiving in her approach. She was too laser-focused to notice, but the common room was staring again, dead silent and praying for another momentous blowout.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Potter,” Monty said, though it was more a growl than anything. “But if you looked around the room, you could only count the people who genuinely like you on one hand, and even then that’s only because half of them would be related to you. The rest of us? We pity you. 

No one wants to admit it, so I will. You’re arrogant, self-absorbed, and haughty, and for what? Every achievement you have, every interesting bit of information there is floating around these halls is all because of your family. Your grandparents died tragic, terrible deaths to protect your dad and the whole wizarding community. They were heroes. Your father sacrificed himself to save us all, killed Voldemort, and lived. Your grandma killed bloody Bellatrix Lestrange!

But you? You’re just a half-baked attempt at a Gryffindor. You’ll end up stuck behind a desk in a dead end Ministry job, while your siblings and cousins go on to be useful members of society. 

You’re not brave or courageous, James. You’re just a dick.”

The air in the common room went dead, no longer hosting the warm and vibrant atmosphere it had moments before. James' smile had vanished, leaving behind only a stricken expression. His hazel eyes, usually bright and sparkling with good humor, had gone cold and almost corpse like. He looked almost paler now, seeming to lose some gold hue in favor of a grayer tone, and he had nothing to say in response.

Monty’s rage had quelled, not by a significant margin, but enough to feel uncomfortable in the environment she felt she had created. Still, she was riding the high of putting James Potter in his place, something someone should have done long before.

She turned, sharp on her heel, and made her way through the crowd that Biblically parted ahead of her. Monty was now able to see the path to the dorms, and her anxiety that was once streaming through her veins was gone.

“Oh, and Potter?” Monty turned around to look in his direction. She did not want to let the moment go to waste. “Do us a favor and don’t be too proud of your Captain position, will you? We all know you only were offered it because Roxanne had already turned it down.”

She slipped through the door before James or anyone could say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids, don't underage drink, but do leave kudos and comment if you are so compelled.


	8. James Potter, Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basking in his own humiliation, James Potter decides to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to sad boi hours with James Sirius Potter.

James’ head was pounding the next morning, and for a brief, beautiful moment, he forgot all that had happened the night before. His glasses were folded neatly on his bedside table, and it was more than certain that he had abandoned them at some point during the party, leaving Lysander to become the spectacles’ guardian. He groaned.

He was not unused to wild nights after matches, but after a full summer without a drop of alcohol, his previously unbeatable tolerance had diminished some. He did not imagine that he had presented himself very well, having been known to have loose lips and be (playfully) antagonizing in his past experiences with firewhiskey. James could even admit to some degree that he could be borderline belligerent under the influence. But the thing was, he could not for the life of him recall what could have provoked him to act out… if he did, indeed, act out at all.

His memories came to him in reverse order, beginning with the image of Monty Baird storming off and away, in a blur of plaid and bouncy brown hair. What happened after, he couldn’t be sure, but the density of the silence still seemed to close in around his throat.

Why was it all so blurry? Yes, obviously because he was drunk, but there was something else… and it clicked. He was trying not to cry.

“We pity you,” she had said. James had spent years trying to place that very specific brand of look that strangers and friends alike would give him. There was always a twinge that transcended sadness, that now had a name assigned to it: Pity. 

Everyone that met him pitied the poor Potter boy, who had to know — simply had to — that he was never going to be enough in the world’s eyes… in his family’s eyes. Two generations of war heroes leading to him, a cocky, frivolous boy with “half the talent and less than a quarter as interesting” as his parents.

And it had gotten to him, visibly, on display for the entirety of Gryffindor house to see and the rest of Hogwarts to hear. James Sirius Potter, who would never live up to his name, finally had the illusion shattered.

He remembered what happened after Monty left, now, and it was not at all pleasant. 

“Is it true?” James had said, and he turned to Roxanne. His voice wavered, watery along with the angry tears that formed in his eyes.

She stared back at him, her eyes wide, and she looked just as stricken as he felt. That was more than answer enough.

“I don’t need your pity, Roxanne!” He shouted at her. He then turned to the rest of the crowd that was watching on. “I don’t need any of your pity. I don’t need anything from you.”

He remembered Lily in the crowd, staring up at him with her big, brown Kneazle eyes and silently pleading with him to calm down, but he did not have full control over himself.

James yanked the Captain pin from his jumper and threw it at Roxanne’s feet. “And I don’t need this. It’s yours. Apparently it always was.”

His Sunday morning headache screamed and pounded now. He was no longer Quidditch Captain… and he was fairly certain he had quit the team altogether. 

The morning sun was hitting his eyes, insisting he rise, but also reminding him that it was likely far past breakfast now. He was sure that the scandal of James Potter unethically earning his position as Captain had spread like dragon pox, and it would not be long before his parents would hear about it.

His parents — Quidditch legends — who were so overjoyed to celebrate their eldest son getting Captain in only his fifth year. His mum threw a “small” dinner party at the Potter House the weekend he’d received the letter, inviting the rest of the Holyhead Harpies and his entire extended family. Even Greer’s family had attended, her father bringing along a few members of Puddlemere United. As if he wasn’t embarrassed enough by the whole extravaganza, now all of them would know he was a sham.

He was so humiliated he could have died right then and there, simply wasted away to nothingness from the comfort of his bed and never have to face the disaster at hand. 

What he could not fully remember, though, was what set Monty off in the first place. There were brief flashes: his arm over her shoulder, and the smell of her shampoo wafting into his nose, urging him — practically screaming at him — to lean in closer. 

_ Right!  _ She shoved him away at exactly the same moment he was desperate to get nearer. Why he wanted to, he didn’t know. Maybe it was her short red plaid skirt that swayed against her long legs as she bounced ever so slightly to the tune of the music in the background. Maybe it was that the heat of the room had flushed her warm beige cheeks pink, and the firelight highlighted the hint of red in her otherwise dark brown waves. Or maybe it was because he was five and a half shots down into a flask of firewhiskey that he had snatched from Jake Lien.

Nonetheless, in his intoxicated state, her tossing him aside was the ultimate rejection. Were he more present in the moment, he probably would have ignored it, or if he was feeling daring, he would have lightly teased her about getting flustered by being so close next to him. No, he chose to grow sensitive and opt for a childish means of getting her attention. It did not escape James’ attention that this was now the second house party that he had seemingly ruined for Monty. At least no one could call him inconsistent.

Suddenly and sharply, James’ stomach churned over, sending him flying out of bed and towards the toilet. He only barely made it, but it did not make much difference. So there he lay, hot face against a cool toilet seat, on the unfeeling washroom floor.  _ Oh, how the mighty fall.  _

It was enough to write epics about. The teenage offspring of a mythic hero, granted all the privileges and advantages of fame, succeeding in nothing, and wallowing on suspiciously wet limestone. It would be good enough gossip for the general public of the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

Whether James had a significant number of enemies around the school was uncertain. There was Monty, Lorcan, his own brother, his own brother’s own best friend, Warren Nott, Martin Goyle, and maybe that Mariana Caticovas, who was always glaring at him something awful across Potions. And he supposed Roxanne was up for review… and Lucy never seemed to like him all too much either. 

Monty was right about that too, he supposed. The amount of people at school who genuinely liked him was minimal at best. James always knew when someone was using him for his fame, which was why he had a tendency to stay away from dating and associated very little outside of his family tree.

For the past five years, James upheld this idea that he was popular, not because of who his parents or grandparents were, but because he was the type of guy you want to be mates with. He thought he got Captain because despite the suggestion of nepotism, he truly put his nose to the grindstone and excelled in his position as Beater. He really believed that he had earned something, maybe for the very first moment in his fifteen years of existence.

Everyone knew, didn’t they? The whole time everyone had to know that Roxanne was supposed to be Captain. He must have been in denial about it before, as it rang out clear as a bell now. There was no way he would have been first pick. She was an excellent Seeker — rivaled only by Sade Agrinya — and she practically would have won Gryffindor the Cup single-handedly if Monty hadn’t slammed straight into her right in Snitch’s reach. 

_ Merlin’s fuckin’ beard.  _ And he finally remembered exactly what he had said to anger Monty ever so much. “It’s outstanding what we can achieve on the pitch without the interference of Madam Ilvermorny.” “You’re a bit of a bad luck charm.” “You were a replaceable Chaser.” It was all drastically worse than he felt he was saying in the moment, and not a lick of it was true. Monty was a phenomenal Chaser — admittedly better than Rose — and if Slytherin had not been just as awful, the team would have been hopeless on the pitch without her. 

Well, now they’d be hopeless without either of them.

James kept his head down for the rest of Sunday, pretending to be impervious to the echoing whispers of what happened at the Gryffindor victory party. He knew that there were previous rumors that he could be prone to pouting and sulking, which was absolutely and positively not what he was doing. In those situations, however, he found that many people tried their best to stay out of his path, and he was certainly no stranger to going days on end without a single one of his peers speaking to him. Even Lysander would avoid him, just as they were doing now.

The fifth year Gryffindors normally sat together during meals, despite half of them disliking the company of the other half. Bright and early that Monday morning, though, they had split into smaller subgroups, and no one dared meet James’ gaze.

The same could not be said for the rest of the hall. A handful of the Hufflepuffs stared at him, recently recognizable pity filling their gaze, and James supposed that if he felt pathetic enough he would actually accept their pity and sit with them. Lorcan and his select few Ravenclaws suppressed amused smirks and whispered to one another words that were likely not on the side of kind. But the worst was over at the Slytherin table, which sat (in this order) Scorpius, Albus, and then Monty, all smiles and laughter, not even sparing James a sideways, cursory glance.

Perhaps apologizing to all three of them, truly, deeply, and sincerely would fix everything. Maybe Albus would talk to him again. Maybe James could even be bothered to get to know Scorpius as anything other than a Malfoy. Maybe Monty wouldn’t push him away anymore. But most likely, he would just get rejected again, and not even James could say how he would react to that.

For the very first time in his life, James had nothing to distract him from his overwhelming loneliness. It had always been there gnawing at the nerves in the back of his skull, but he always had a plan to circumvent the feeling. It used to be pranking with his cousin and his best friend. It used to be Quidditch. And now he had nothing.

* * *

James chose to sit alone in Potions. Even if he hadn’t, Lysander was sitting with Archie now, a silent crush finally acknowledged. As much as James would have liked to fault Lysander for it, he could not. 

Besides, James never needed the help. Potions was his best subject by a long shot, and he wasn’t sure if he was top of the class in the subject, but he knew he was at least somewhere high up on the list. He loved the physicality of creating nothing into something, and watching it happen live in a way that you couldn’t see in spellwork. 

Every potion was emotional in it’s own way, toeing the line between perfection and eruption. Even following the instructions to a tee could push it over the edge. It was intuitive and instinctive for James, and he loved the thrill that his work could blow up in his face at a moment’s notice.

That being said, James hadn’t had a potion go wrong in class since his second year. He would have the occasional miss, potions that were slightly soured, but not an explosive reaction in years. For that, James would turn his attention to the other students’ cauldrons, half of which were live ticking bombs, much like those in old spy movies that he’d seen playing on the Granger grandparent’s television.

The only satisfying part of sharing Potions with the Slytherins was knowing — without fail — that Warren Nott and Martin Goyle’s potion would detonate in the most dramatic fashion, spilling over onto the floor and inevitably arriving at Mariana’s shoes. He also knew — without fail — that Mariana would scold them, switching to Spanish halfway through so that the more offensive of insults would have plausible deniability. It happened every week, and it was completely lost on James as to why Mariana would not simply move to a different table. Warren was also not known to be particularly stupid — coursework-wise — so why he would actively choose to work with the king idiot Goyle himself was also, completely lost on James.

It did not escape James’ notice that Monty was without a partner this afternoon. Every Potions class for the past four years (save a few sick days and solo working days), Greer and Monty were partners, just like James and Lysander. Today, though, Greer had abandoned Monty for Roxanne, who was originally abandoned by Archie for his partnership with Lysander. 

James was fine with change, perfectly fine with it. It did not make him nervous, and it did not cause him to obsess over the situation. No, James welcomed change, took it on bravely, head on, and without reservation.

But bloody hell was it bugging him that everyone had changed their seating arrangement. It was all good and well when Roxanne and Lucy had split up their partnership a few weeks into first year, because they were cousins and wanted to branch out in their socializing. That made sense. Lysander prioritizing a crush on a classmate over their friendship made sense.  _ Stupid, but it makes sense.  _ But Greer leaving Monty for Roxanne did not make sense to him.

Here was the rationalization: Archie wanted to be partners with Lysander because they’re young and in love, and that’s what dumb, hormone-crazed teenagers do. Archie had to leave his partnership with Roxanne, but Roxanne is mad at James for yelling at her and quitting the team. She needs a new partner, but the only currently available partner is James. Logically, Lucy and Niamh could split (unlikely), Leland and Miles could split (more unlikely), or Greer and Monty could split… likely. But why would Greer become partners with Roxanne, leaving Monty to possibly be partnered with him? 

Slughorn was not a fan of students working alone during partner projects. He would let James work alone if Lysander was absent, but only if there were no other students without a partner. The group would have known this, leaving only one available reason for why Greer was partnered with Roxanne and not Monty.

Monty must have wanted to apologize to him. Nothing else made sense to him. Still, James had no intention of initiating the conversation, and frankly, he did not have much desire to accept an apology whatsoever. She had ignored him for the entire summer and slighted him on several occasions within the past month, so James imagined it was time to return the favor.

So when Slughorn asked if Monty and James would be partners for the afternoon, he looked her dead in the eyes and politely said, “No, thank you, Professor.”

An apology never did come.

* * *

James had not even noticed it was the end of the month, until it was a particularly icy Thursday morning and all anyone was talking about was the Hallowe’en feast. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed the floating jack-o-lanterns that had been apparently bobbing up and down over the Great Lake the entire week, but his self-isolation seemed to be affecting his perception skills just a tad. 

Lysander was still giving James his space, even though he wasn’t so confident he wanted it anymore, and it was increasingly clear that there were not a whole heap of people jumping to talk to him. 

James knew, for a while now, that the appeal of being James Potter was no longer much of a factor for his peers as they grew to see him as a boy and not a legend in the making. He had been more than okay with that. His appeal was from being a talented Beater… and a deserving Captain. 

What he was growing to learn now, though, was that he was actually just kind of obnoxious. He always had to be the loudest one in the room and the center of attention, and that did not lend to genuine popularity, but people humoring him.

It was as if the veil had lifted, and the light was being shown on the bare nakedness of the true James Potter. And he bloody sucked. James was losing the energy and will to go to meals and classes by the hour, skipping Astronomy on Wednesday nights in favor of staring at the ceiling, with the curtains of his four poster drawn.

Every morning at breakfast, James expected his tawny owl, Benedick, to fly in with the post and drop a letter from his mum or dad. At first he’d dreaded the idea of a long-winded, minorly condescending pep talk from his dad about how the family was still proud of him, even if he did utterly embarrass himself in front of all of Gryffindor house while piss drunk. But every morning, Benedick did not come, except for one choice Tuesday with a week and a half old copy of the Daily Prophet that he’d already read off of Lysander’s bedside table.

James was beginning to adopt odd habits, brushing his teeth only in the morning, and he stopped wearing his glasses much of the time. And he didn’t know why. He didn’t understand why his bones felt tired and his skin was heavy like lead. 

He didn’t even notice when he accidentally skipped the Hallowe’en feast, finding out from the incoming chatter between Leland and Miles about the ghoul band that McGonagall had hired to perform. And that, too, passed as quickly as it came, and it was morning again. November now.

He decided to skip classes again on Friday, knowing good and well that he would not be permitted to go to Hogsmeade on Saturday, but he would not have had the energy to go anyway. Besides, Lysander was probably going with Archie, now that James had been replaced. Roxanne still wouldn’t so much as look at him. Rose had begun dating some fourth year Hufflepuff boy, Declan Macmillan or other. Worst of all, Monty would probably be going with Albus and Scorpius, because she always won.

James was growing resentful, if he were being honest. Not one person had bothered to check on him. No friends, no family, not even a single professor was concerned with his significant drop in attendance and work ethic. It was as if he was invisible.

* * *

Saturday morning, it was snowing, which was unanimously declared ideal Hogsmeade weather, but that was of no importance to James.

He was not going, and no one was going to notice that he wasn’t there hoisting a butterbeer into the air of the Three Broomsticks and creating electrifying toasts for his (former) friends, reminding them each why he loved them all so dear. It was going to be as if he was never in the group to begin with.

He hadn’t slept much the night before, giving him ample time to ruminate and stir over exactly why everyone was still keeping their distance from him, and he came to the conclusion that they were all just waiting for a good enough excuse to be rid of him. They were only ever his friends because of family obligation. Their loyalty had been bought.

Monty was probably the only one who was ever a genuine friend in the first place. They argued, frequently enough to be known for it, because she never excused his ridiculous behavior. She kept him on notice, and that was why he liked being her friend. She was honest with him, but now the very same quality that cemented their friendship, ruined it.

Nothing felt right, anymore. Right was left, and left was right, and James Potter was not himself, but some lonely, listless loser. He wanted a mentor, a guide, really anyone who would actually care or notice that he was there.

He was terrified of McGonagall, so that already ruled her out. She had her eye on him from the moment he stepped off that train as a gawky little eleven-year-old. Slughorn, as much as James loved his teaching, was more focused on James’ fame and family tree. He dropped Care of Magical Creatures last term, so he would feel wrong going to Hagrid for guidance. And Professor Longbottom was his dad’s mate… and also Lysander’s mum’s ex-boyfriend, which didn’t mean anything to James, but still weirded him out if he thought too hard about it.

It was all rather unfair. Nearly every adult within his dad’s orbit had flocked to guide and protect him. From all of his tales of his Hogwarts days, it sounded as if Harry Potter never went a moment without having someone to turn to. Granted, his dad didn’t have any parents, but still.

Then it occurred to him. All of the people that his father had for guidance were somewhere within the Hogwarts’ grounds. Even his dead grandparents, whom James obviously never met in the flesh, now resided here. 

James never understood as a child why his father didn’t put the elder James and Lily’s portrait in the Potter home. It was his grandfather’s childhood home, after all, and it seemed like the right place for it, among hearth and home. He never thought to ask his father about the decision, simply taking it at face value, but now he really wished he knew.

The invisibility cloak hadn’t gotten any use thus far in the year. James had been too focused on practice and coursework to stay awake far enough into the night to need it. He didn’t need it then, either, as it was only just past noon, and very few people were likely to be roaming the halls.

Still, James did not want to be seen where he was going. It was not scandalous and altogether not the least bit noteworthy of a journey, but James would have rather not anyone else see that his hands were shaking and his eyes were beginning to look sunken in.

At his normal brisk pace, getting down to the dungeons never took very long. The invisibility cloak ended up proving useless, as not a soul was meandering around in his path, but it felt like the right homage to pay.

He liked that the Battle of Hogwarts portrait hall was in the dungeons. He’d assumed it was put there to serve as a daily reminder to the Slytherins that their pureblood ideology was never going to be celebrated. Only heroes would be… well, heroes and Severus Snape, whose story James could never fully comprehend to be very sympathetic, even when his dad insisted it was the utmost show of bravery. That was an argument for another holiday dinner.

James stopped at the entrance to the hall, hesitant to step inside. 

He’d only been in once before that he remembered, just after Lily was born. At the young age of four, he did not grasp the concept of death, and wouldn’t for several years after. He remembered being frightened of the looming figures smiling down at him. His depth perception made their smiles wicked. Young James did not understand why a man that looked just like his father was trapped in a portrait, but with eyes he did not recognize, or why his Uncle George had gained an ear, but lost his freedom of movement. He screamed, so Albus joined him, and their mum escorted them out of the hall, while the portraits seemed to laugh at them.

Eleven years later and James still hadn’t mustered the courage to go inside. Every so often he’d make the journey down, convinced he’d be able to greet his lost family as if they had always been around — because they had been. Their stories were told, and he knew each and every one of them. He was just afraid to meet them.

What if they looked at him and instantly knew that he didn’t have what it took? James couldn’t bear the thought that his grandparents, who died at the hands of Voldemort himself to protect their son and save the entire world, would see him and know that he was a pretender. Because then James would have to admit what he’s always known, that he doesn’t actually belong.

He’d done everything that was expected of him to be a true Potter and a true Weasley. He looked the part: Gryffindor, Quidditch player, Captain, prankster. Yet, none of it was real. He’d asked for Gryffindor, before the Sorting Hat even had a chance to say a thing, because he always knew that he wasn’t brave or courageous like the rest of his family. Asking was his only way in.

Now he envied his family members who were sorted into other houses. Molly and Louis were thriving in Hufflepuff, and it was growing on Hugo, too. Dominique loved being a Ravenclaw before she graduated. They got to be their authentic selves, outside of the realm of expectation.

James had always teased Albus that he would be Slytherin, and he was sure everyone knew exactly why. They just never said it openly, because James was meant to be Slytherin. He was just afraid of admitting it, so he pushed it onto Albus. Now, Al wouldn’t talk to him for it. And secretly, James was a little jealous that Al got away from the expectation trap, too.

Before him, just past an archway and down the hall, were the rest of those that he was disappointing. They probably just didn’t know yet to be disappointed.

And James still hadn’t mustered the courage to go inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeehaw and thank you for getting to the end of this chapter! I hope you enjoyed reading it, as I certainly enjoyed writing it. As always, I would be positively over the moon if you left a kudos or a comment. They make me cry little happy tears.


	9. Don't Get Me Started on James Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Monty's classmates is perpetually absent, and as much as she hates to admit it, she's starting to get worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there was no dialogue in the last chapter, here is... a lot of dialogue.

What Monty really looked forward to week in and week out was Charms. It sounded so ridiculous, she knew that, but there was no greater thrill for her than knowing she was great at something. There was something about learning a spell the night before class so that she could hear the words, "Wonderful work, Miss Baird,” being said in front of her classmates. They could ignore her or make her feel lesser than outside of Charms, but in the domain of chaotic streams of enchantments, Monty was queen.

If you think about it, burning all of your remaining bridges in your house in one go was actually quite impressive. Roxanne wouldn’t even speak if Monty was nearby, only glancing upon her coldly. In all effort to impress Roxanne, Greer followed suit, abandoning Monty in Potions and going so far to ignore her in Arithmancy. Archie was angry that James quit the team and made it quite clear that he believed Monty to be at fault. Even Lysander would only speak to her if it was absolutely necessary.

Hogwarts finally felt like home, in that cold, distant way that she regarded Montgomery Hall as “home.” Long, spacious stone halls filled with the icy whispers of those that would never regard her as anything more than a pest. At long last, the last glimmer of warmth and hope that she was clinging to had gone, just like everything else had.

So she focused on the one thing she could still get praise and recognition for: Charms. Classrooms 99 and 2E were now the closest thing Monty had to home, and Flitwick had long been the closest thing she had to a father figure. 

At first, he didn’t care for her much. She was too talkative — always having to be reminded that class is for learning, not gabbing — and it was no secret that Flitwick had a preference for Ravenclaws. Very soon after, however, she proved to have a natural inclination towards the subject, and quickly soared far above her peers in ability. Eventually, Flitwick seemed to appreciate that she asked so many questions, but his loyalty came at a price. She did have to be in Frog Choir. _Less than ideal, but worth it._

That particular day, Charms class was focused on performing and perfecting the Confundus Charm. Wayward streams of pink magic would hit unsuspecting and unintended targets, causing even more confusion in Leland and Miles, which Monty had previously considered impossible.

Monty never cast a spell until she was certain Professor Flitwick was watching. This used to be the butt of friendly, mild jokes, which grew to be increasingly antagonistic. Still, the jokes never bothered her. If her work was worthy of praise, she felt no shame in receiving it.

Spruce and dragon heartstring were an easy extension of her arm, casting a sharp and neat Confundus Charm. A tight stream of pink exploded into the walking teacup she’d charmed earlier in the class period, and the teacup began to run about in sporadic circles.

Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together, beaming up at her with pride. “Two perfect charms in one class, Miss Baird!” The rest of the class groaned. “At this rate, you’ll have my job.”

Monty never bothered to present an air of faux humility, turning to the rest of the class and grinning. The Gryffindors did not meet her eye, looking anywhere but at her. Leland and Miles, still Confunded, were bumping into one another in a cult-like circular motion. James Potter was notably absent.

Again.

A twinge of guilt and another unplaceable, but equally negative feeling stirred through her stomach. This was the third time James had been absent from Charms alone. He’d missed Astronomy twice, History of Magic three times, Herbology once, Muggle Studies twice, and Defense Against the Dark once. Divination, she could not account for, as she’d dropped it halfway through third year after Professor Trelawney had loudly announced that she was not “touched with the gift” as her mother was. The only classes that James hadn’t skipped had been Transfiguration and Potions, which were coincidentally his best subjects.

Not that Monty had been keeping track in her notebook or anything.

“Miss Baird,” Flitwick called her out of her thoughts. “Would you be able to demonstrate the counter spell for the Confundus Charm on Mr. Digby and Mr. Wen?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Monty. They had not yet been taught the counter spell, as the charm often wore off on its own, but Leland had knocked over Miles, and it was becoming a distraction for the rest of the class. But Monty prepared for this kind of thing, especially in Charms. 

There were actually several spells that could offset the effects of the Confundus Charm, Monty found. She believed that many spells could be used for different purposes if you focused hard enough, and her theory had proven to be at least partially correct with the success of the autopsy spell ( _ Tersus Seorsum) _ on her CD player.

After Monty wrote her essay on the Confundus Charm last night, she practiced it, as she did with all of her spells. And as she did with all of her spells, she made a list of all spells immediately related to it and practiced those as well. She supposed her homework wouldn’t take half so long were she to focus solely on the assignment, but then she wouldn’t be half so good at Charms, and that would be unacceptable.

Ultimately,  _ Recipero  _ was the easiest and fastest acting counter spell for the  Confundus Charm. It seemed to be the obvious choice, as the wand movement was the direct reversal of Confundus, and the stream was a lovely, mint color. Monty performed it once on each boy, and they quickly stilled, not yet conscious of their actions, but no longer a distraction.

She glanced down to Flitwick, awaiting feedback on her work. He simply smiled and nodded before continuing on to assist Sade in her pronunciation. 

* * *

Defense Against the Dark Arts had become mind-numbingly boring over the past year. Every passing year, the threat of pureblood mania seemed to fade further into the recesses of the UK’s memory, and it finally bled into the teachings of Professor Bones.

It seemed to the wider public that defending oneself against the Dark Arts was hypothetical, not to be needed again in practice as the ultimate evil had been defeated. Monty imagined the laissez-faire approach to the subject was not unprecedented, and that the lack of urgency and immediacy in the coursework had appeared before just after the imprisonment of Gellert Grindelwald.

But Monty paid close enough attention in History of Magic to know that the Dark Arts would always be of interest to the wrong kind of wizard, and that new threats would appear when one least expected it. 

That made the lecture-only style of Professor Bones’ teachings all the more frustrating. Long gone were the days of actually performing defensive spells on the regular. Instead, spell practicing periods were now only three times a month, and Merlin help you if you’re struggling.

How a former Dumbledore’s Army member could stand to make the class so terribly useless must have been a deeply guarded secret between Professor Bones and God. It was all so blatantly ironic. The very reason for the creation of Dumbledore’s Army was because the Defense of the Dark Arts professor at the time was only teaching defensive theory… and now the modern students sat in rows at wooden tables, bored to oblivion and listening to endless lectures on defensive theory.

Monty spent more time thinking about her wand than actually using it these days, and if she had the time between homework and prefect duties, she might have actually begun her own incarnation of Dumbledore’s Army out of pure spite. All she could do for the time being, however, was pretend to listen to the Hufflepuff Head of House drone on about counter-jinxes, which would have been helpful were they not two weeks out from actually performing them. 

She secretly prayed that someone would come back to jinx the Defense professor position again, so she wouldn’t have to sit through another year of Professor Bones’ mousy, exhausted voice.

James Potter — again — did not show up to this class, but Monty did not fault him for that in the slightest.

* * *

Monty was used to feeling lonely. 

When she went to elementary school in Colorado, she was the weird girl. The one that could never find a friend to stick around very long. The one that never had playdates and sleepovers or got invited to birthday parties. The other kids thought her stories were strange, and they soon learned that things would happen around them if Monty felt any emotion too strongly. 

That was when she first realized that she was different from her brothers. Finch could mold himself to fit into any group he pleased, changing his colors, his speech patterns, his morals to ensure that no one caught a whiff of oddity. It certainly didn’t hurt that he had a built-in friend in his grade — their cousin, Lexi — to help guide him through the social trials of the American education system.

Joel only had to make it through Kindergarten in one piece, where differences are celebrated and children are not yet socialized to recognize oddness. Even still, Joel had their cousin Cole in his class. Joel likely didn’t remember being anything other than a wholly British wizard, and if he did, he made no mention of it.

Sometimes, when Monty thought too hard about her young childhood, she wondered why she cared so much about maintaining her American-isms. When the rose colored glasses were off, the reality of being raised muggle in America was not ideal. She was mocked, harassed, and bullied by her peers, and her teachers made little effort to stop it. 

But her loyalty lied with her family, the ones that did not reject her.

The Bairds had dwindled in size, to be sure. Her grandfather, Carl Baird, had passed away when Monty was only four. She did not remember him well, only that he sat in a big armchair in the living room that smelled of cigarettes. Her grandmother, Maria Baird, passed away last winter, just a few days before Christmas. Her aunt and cousins were technically Healeys — not Bairds —leaving Monty, her mother, and her brothers to be the last living in the Baird name.

Her muggle items that she held dear had all been passed down to her, precious relics of a family once whole. Most of her records were her grandparents, old 70s and 80s albums that they had collected during the early stages of their marriage, songs her father grew up listening to in the living room.

Besides, American muggles had a much better sense of fashion, or at least Lexi did. And Monty was more than happy to be sent hand-me-downs from across the pond if it meant wearing more plaid and less robes. (But when it came to gowns, wizards had them beat.)

But outside the sunny realm of nostalgia, her childhood was not all too pleasant, and it seemed her teenage years were shaping up to be even more miserable.

Now that she wasn’t playing hostess or athlete, very few people were eager to talk to her. But she was used to feeling that way.

* * *

Tutoring Albus and Scorpius was one of the only social events she enjoyed. Their friendship was odd, she could admit that, but they were happy to have her around. It was like having little brothers that actually acknowledged her existence, and it was comforting.

By lunch, the sun only hung halfway in the sky, sleepy already and no longer warm enough to maintain the leaves of the ancient oaks surrounding the Great Lake. The Whomping Willow had shed its foliage the week prior, and stood dormant, not deigning to even whisper.

Monty adjusted her glasses as she tried to make out Scorpius’ messy handwriting. “I think it says that your Virgo moon is in… retrograde with Jupiter? And that means you’ll have horrendous luck for the rest of the month.”

Albus laughed. “Are you sure you’re reading that right?”

“You keep asking for my help on subjects I know nothing about,” Monty replied, and she shoved Scorpius’ notes into Albus’ hands. “Let’s see you do better.” 

“My dad says Divination is a load of bollocks,” Scorpius groaned and slumped down onto the grass. The soft wind blew his white blond hair away from his face. He was a handsome young man, with the sharp features of his paternal family without any of the haughtiness that historically accompanied the Malfoy name. 

Scorpius was surprisingly sweet and reserved. He wasn’t exactly the type of person you’d want to go into battle alongside, but you could rest assured knowing that he’d bring you candies in the hospital wing were a battle to go awry. He was everything his surname suggested he would not be, but it didn’t seem like many people gave him the chance to prove himself.

“You dad is a load of bollocks,” Albus muttered. Scorpius looked at him, shocked for only a second, before bursting into laughter.

“That’s your worst comeback yet!”

“Nuh-uh!” Al stuck his tongue out. Scorpius’ grey eyes sparkled in amusement. “I’ve had worse.”

“Only a Potter would find a way to brag about having bad comebacks.”

Albus leapt to his feet, nearly hitting his head on a low-hanging branch of the oak tree above them. He whipped his wand out of his pocket and pointed it at Scorpius as if preparing for a sword battle. “You insult my family name, do you, Malfoy?”

Scorpius followed suit, though his shorter stature saved him from any attacks from overhead branches. He deepened his voice. “Your family name is an insult in itself.”

With a ridiculous war cry, Albus lunged forward, tackling the smaller boy from the middle. The pair rolled over Scorpius’ inkwell, spilling ink all over his Divination notes, and continued to roll down the hill towards the Great Lake. Monty watched on as they fought for the upper-hand, clearly enjoying themselves.

A frigid breeze blew past her, seeping through her robes and causing her to shiver. It was likely that this would be the last week they could comfortably study outside before rain and snow took dominion over the castle. Along with that came the dark twinge of jealousy in her stomach, bubbling like a well brewed potion, all the while making her feel ill.

Albus and Scorpius had what Monty could only ever dream of: an unwavering camaraderie blending seamlessly into love and devotion… and so young, too. It was a void that had not yet been filled, not by Ishani Kunwar, or Conor Knearnaught, or Misty Friar, or any of the lot. 

There was a strange dichotomy between knowing and feeling. Monty knew she was fifteen, and the purpose of fifteen-year-olds was not to find true love, but to grow as people and become productive members of society or some bullshit to that degree. Still, Monty felt the ever growing sense that her time was running out. 

Yes, she was fifteen, but fifteen soon became sixteen, and seventeen, and eighteen, and before she would even know it she’d be out the doors of Hogwarts and onto the cold, unfeeling streets of some city somewhere settling for the first witch or wizard that pitied her enough to ask for her hand. While the rest of the world made great strides towards the future of equality, wizards were stuck firmly in their ancient, regressive laws, and Monty was merely subject to them.

But Albus and Scorpius had it already — love, commitment, passion — and it wasn’t fair.

The Slytherin pair had taken their wrestling match so far down the clearing that they were in perilous danger of falling into the Great Lake, which seemed only moments from freezing over. Just before reaching the outer bank, Albus at last pinned Scorpius down, cheering wildly for himself.

It was in moments like these that Albus was almost indistinguishable from his older brother. They did not look all too similar, sharing only the same hair color and similar noses, but when Albus radiated with joy and pride, their laughs and smiles seemed identical. Monty regretted for them their separation, feeling that the two brothers would both be better off reconciling, but there was a difference between feeling and knowing.

The few remaining students meandering outside the castle began to head back into the halls, signalling that class time was approaching soon. Monty packed her bookbag, stowing away her beat up leather notebook and rising from her seated position on the grass.

“Hey, idiots!” Monty called out to Albus and Scorpius, who had rolled onto their backs to stare at the clouds passing overhead. “Time to go find out if your moons are in gatorade.” Though she knew that joke would zip past their heads, she chuckled all the same.

Monty maintained a steady pace through the hallway, as she often did. The heat of the student body surrounded her, defrosting her fingers and causing her nose to run ever so slightly. Albus ran past her, waving Scorpius’ ruined Divination notes high above his head, as Scorpius chased after him. Monty smiled to herself, now finally content.

“Those two have the worst kept secret relationship in history,” Natalia saddled up beside her, frightening her half to death. “I just don’t understand it.”

Monty thought it best to neither confirm nor deny this.

“Oh, God!” Natalia slapped her hand over her mouth. “I assumed you already knew.”

“I do. I just wasn’t sure if you  _ knew, _ knew. How do you know?”

“Caught them two Mondays ago, behind the Morgana tapestry near the kitchens.”

“What Morgana tapestry?”

“The one with the hidden hallway behind it. It doesn’t lead anywhere, but it’s a prime spot if you’re looking for a good snog.” Natalia nudged Monty in the ribs, waggling her eyebrows.

Monty was glad that they had become close enough friends to joke about things like that. “Natalia Truitt,” she gasped. “I had no idea you were the Ravenclaw harlot.”

“Then you haven’t been out enough.” 

“Apparently not,” Monty laughed. “Being prefect has absolutely murdered the dating scene.”

Natalia raised an eyebrow and rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything. 

“What?” Monty hated being out of the loop. Natalia only flicked her braid off of her shoulder and flashed a cheeky grin. “No, what does that mean?”

A first year Slytherin girl sprinted past them, whipping Monty’s long waves forward into her face. She pulled the strands that got caught in her lip gloss and frowned.

“Oh, shut up,” Natalia’s grin grew wider. “Don’t act like you don’t know a bunch of boys have crushes on you.”

“What?” Monty grinded to a halt. No boys even talked to her, except the two walking poster boys for young homosexual relations. 

She peered around the halls, hoping to catch a secret admirer staring at her with desire and longing. Instead she was met with the indifference of a few older Hufflepuff boys making their way towards the Transfiguration classroom.

“Oh, you know,” Natalia shrugged. “I hear talk around the halls. If you ever stayed quiet enough to listen, maybe you would too. 

But, I hear Nadim Bahri’s thinking of asking you to the next Hogsmeade trip. That might be a name recognition thing, though. You never know with those ambitious types.

Ugh, and don’t even get me started on James Potter—

Oh, this is me. Ta!” With that, Natalia slipped through the adjacent classroom door that Monty recognized as the entrance to the art room, leaving Monty behind, stunned.

* * *

‘Don’t get me started on James Potter…’ What did that mean? It wouldn’t stop bouncing around in Monty’s head, an incessant echo grating her brain like cheese. Natalia could not really think James Potter had a crush on her. That wouldn’t make a lick of sense.

James was far too selfish to think of anyone romantically, anyway. Yes, yes, that was right. If he were — hypothetically speaking — to have any feelings of romantic inclination towards her, it would not have anything to actually do with Monty or her character. James’ only ability to feel would be deeply rooted in his own need to improve his social standing. 

Now, Monty did not have two legs to stand on when it came to popularity, so James would see no need or interest in her whatsoever… so she was safe.

But on the other hand, she had humiliated James so publicly and profoundly that he wouldn’t dare show his face in over half of the classes they shared together. That could be indication of an unrequited lover now scorned.

But on the other… other hand ( _ Third hand? _ ), if James had feelings for her, he would have jumped at the opportunity to be her Potions partner. Instead, he rejected her in front of all of Gryffindor and Slytherin, and — worst of all — Slughorn. So he definitively did not like her.

Or he did. Merlin on a broom, it wasn’t getting any clearer.

She was growing concerned when James had missed Astronomy again.

Having rounds directly after Astronomy was always the worst week of the month, and having the extra baggage weighing on her mind was not going to help pass the time.

Monty wasn’t sure if the hallways at this time of night were becoming increasingly colder or if she was developing an iron deficiency, but either way, it took three layers to keep her body heat insulated enough to function. She was sure she looked absurd — sort of like the girl that turned into a blueberry from Willy Wonka — as she hobbled down the corridor, missing her usual range of movement. If she looked funny, she was not made aware of it, as Lysander was being especially icy towards her.

The logistics of Gryffindor morality could be confusing, even to a fellow Gryffindor. Their loyalties lied in their ideals, less than their companionships. If you did something they considered scornful enough, your closest of friends could reject you for the sake of moral superiority. 

There were — of course — plenty of situations where this type of mindset was justified. Perhaps if your best friend ratted you out to the Dark Lord to avoid their own death sentence, that would be understandable cause for the termination of a friendship, but a drunken defense against public humiliation was a reach by most means.

Lysander should have been more reasonable, really. They were James’ best friend, but they had never been oblivious to when James was in the wrong. In the past, Lysander would have been the first to condemn James’ actions, so it did not make sense to Monty why they would change their position so drastically. Besides, nothing Monty had said was half so bad as the way James had treated her before.

The Gryffindor prefects strolled down the dimmed hallways in an unsettling silence. Lysander stared straight ahead, their eyes more grey than blue and entirely devoid of feeling. The occasional flash of firelight from passing sconces warmed their pale skin, and for a moment Monty thought Lysander’s coldness towards her would melt.

“Is Potter okay?” Monty decided to cut straight to the chase. She never did well in silence, a trait that she was very well aware was passed down by her mother.

Lysander did not look at her. “James is fine, no thanks to you.”

“He missed dinner again,” Monty pressed on. “And Astronomy.”

Lysander only hummed in disapproval. The heel of Monty’s boot caught on a loose stone. She recovered quickly and caught back up to Lysander, whose pace did not waver.

“I haven’t seen you talk to him. I haven’t seen anyone talk to him.”

“Since when do you care?” Lysander snipped at her. Monty flinched, and Lysander seemed to soften the tiniest amount. “Look, James does this. He’ll recover in his own time, and there’s no use in me forcing it — believe me — but it isn’t really fair that you’re now trying to play savior. Leave it alone.”

“Oh… okay,” Monty whispered. They continued down the hall in silence for a few minutes, nearing the stairwell where they normally split. “So, what’s up with you and Archie?”

Lysander stopped walking. “We’re friends.”

Monty grinned. “Right… ‘friends.’”

“Well, look at that, time for me to go upstairs.” Lysander bolted up the staircase and around the right corner. Monty paused for a moment, looking after the blank space that once held her friend, before Peeves raced from the other side of the upstairs hallway to Lysander’s direction. It was dead silent for a moment, then Lysander shrieked.

That was her cue to descend down into the dungeons, as she did every time she had rounds. The dungeons had grown familiar over the past months, comforting even. Some evenings after dinner, Monty would walk Albus and Scorpius down to their common room just to continue their conversation a bit longer. Her visits to Uncle Phillip’s portrait had increased in frequency and length, and Monty was (very secretly) hoping for an invitation to Slug Club from Slughorn, so she thought it'd be best to up her visibility.

She knew that was silly… and unlikely, as fifth years were largely excluded from the Slug Club dinners and parties, but Monty was eager to take up any excuse to attend a school sanctioned party. Even McGonagall couldn’t shut that down. And frankly, she thought her position as prefect and the best of her class in Charms warranted an invitation… and her lineage didn’t hurt her chances.

Monty had memorized all of the usual sounds of the dungeons. Every four to five seconds, the rusty pipe next to the wall-long painting of the Greek underworld would leak and drip against the uneven stone flooring — only three seconds if it were raining. There were five individual rats and two mice that would squeak and scatter every so often, though never all at once and not every time. As always, the faint chatter of portraits always flitted through the air, but rarely ever with enough clarity to hear what was being said.

This was exactly how Monty knew when there was a new and usually unwelcome sound. Just outside the entrance to the Battle of Hogwarts portrait hall, there was a loose stone that would make a scraping sound when stepped on. It was the third row back and sixth one to the left, the ittiest bit closer to the main exit of dungeons, and most Slytherins and prefects knew to avoid it. Only someone entirely unaware of its presence would have been foolish enough to walk there.

“ _ Lumos maxima,”  _ Monty muttered the incantation, lighting up the corridor, but was only met with the empty continuation of the hallway. 

Almost any other prefect would have assumed their ears had deceived them and thought nothing more of it, but she knew better. Monty looked intently at the ground, waiting for the dust on the cobblestone to be stirred. A twig materialized in front of the loose stone that had not been there before, seemingly coming from nowhere.

“ _ Ventus!”  _ Monty exclaimed, and her wand produced a strong gust of wind, knocking the invisible target back onto the ground. The lights dimmed again, but James Potter’s figure was unmistakable nonetheless.

James gathered his invisibility cloak into a bundle in his arms, brushing the dirt off of it, and rose to his feet.

“After curfew again, Potter,” said Monty, and she chose not to add any glibness to her tone. James stayed in the darker end of the corridor where it was safer. “Care to explain why?”

“Oh, you know me, just being a ‘half-baked attempt at a Gryffindor.’” 

Monty felt her heart deflate, recognizing her own words. “You haven’t shown up to almost a month’s worth of classes, and Merlin knows if you’ve even eaten at all today.”

“Keeping track of me, I’m flattered,” he said. His voice was empty, almost ghost-like, and Monty’s stomach churned over at how unrecognizable he sounded. It was almost as if it was someone polyjuicing as James Potter. 

“James—”

“Don’t look at me like that,” James said, his tone harder now, but she swore she could hear a slight sniffle.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“The rest of them can pity me,” he said. “But you don’t get to.”

“Fine!” Monty bit back, but her scowl faltered when James stepped closer. His eyes were red and puffy, and his cheekbones seemed extraordinarily hollow in the light. He looked ill, and it was her fault.

“I said don’t!” His hazel eyes shone with unshed tears, and the weaker part of her brain wanted to reach up and brush them away for him.

Instead, Monty backed up and held her wand up in surrender, though her expression did not feel any more convincing.

There they stood — former friends, current enemies — wildly uncertain of what the other would do or say next. Monty supposed she could leave it there, neither pushing their relationship one way or the other, but James’ hands were shaking, and it reminded her of Albus.

“You shouldn’t have quit as Captain,” she said. His hands stilled, and his grip on his wand loosened. “That was stupid.”

“I didn’t earn it.”

“Who cares?”

“I do!”

Monty sighed. “You waste so much time on pride and honor when you could be putting your energy into something that actually matters.”

James bristled, and he moved closer to her. She wondered what she looked like from his altitude. She must have seemed so small and unassuming to him, and it was a wonder why he even paid her any mind at all.

“Yeah, and what actually matters?” James asked, and for a second, Monty could have sworn he glanced down at her lips. _Maybe Natalia was onto something._

“Albus,” said Monty. “Your friends.”

James squared his shoulders and took a large step back. “How am I supposed to spend time with Albus if you and Voldemort the Second monopolize all his time?”

It was as if he’d hit her square in the chest with a Bludger. “If you just bothered to talk to him—”

“Right, like you talk to Joel?”

Monty staggered back. The lights dimmed around her, and she could only see James in front of her, lording over her like a giant. “T-that’s different.”

“You’re right,” James scoffed. “It is different. At least my relationship with my brother is salvageable.”

Her throat restricted all air flow, and she choked in a gasp of air. He looked down at her, smugness filling his cheeks back with color, and she backed up all the way to the staircase. 

“And to think I was actually worried about you,” she croaked and took off into a sprint, leaving James behind her.

She ran all the way up the stairs and through the corridor to Gryffindor Tower, tears spilling down her cheeks in hot streams of rage and hurt. She’d hardly noticed that she had ran right past Lysander, who had been patiently waiting for her by the bust of their great grandfather next to the second floor stairway.

Monty sprinted all the way up to the Fat Lady before collapsing into fetal position on the floor, letting her sobs ring out and waiting for Lysander to let her into the common room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain is completely fried, so if there are some typos and grammar errors, I deeply apologize. Thank you for reading, and I hope this chapter was enjoyable. Now, you know the drill... I will give you a kidney if you leave comments and kudos (not my kidney, but a kidney nonetheless). Oh, and Happy Halloween!


	10. The Great and Wondrous Lysander Scamander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysander Scamander is ready to come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter took a bit longer than I intended, but better late than never! 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter does have a scene that might be triggering for people who have had bad experiences with coming out, so I do advise caution. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you all enjoy a Lysander chapter!

Lysander was claustrophobic. Not severely, but it was enough to be noted in passing. Normally, they didn’t think much about it, as they were not frequently in the habit of cozying up in the smallest of spaces. In fact, Lysander had historically refused to take shelter underneath James’ invisibility cloak when sneaking out to perform less-than-legal activities. Thus, Lysander’s track record of getting away with hijinks was abysmal at best.

Again, though, Lysander’s claustrophobia was not a constant plague in the back of their mind… until Peeves learned of it.

The only reason that came to Lysander’s mind was that Peeves had it out for them because he absolutely could not tell the difference between Lysander and their identical twin brother, Lorcan. In fact, it was more than probable that Peeves might not have ever seen the two of them together. The pair did not interact often enough in public spaces to be distinguished by the likes of Peeves, so of course that could be the most logical conclusion. And Lysander couldn’t blame him, as Lorcan was indeed the most incomparable prat on any which side of the Atlanic.

Still, Lysander supposed it didn’t matter exactly why Peeves held such a grudge against them. A target was a target regardless

This led them to be trapped — alone — in a fourth floor broom closet not even fifteen minutes into rounds. _Well, this is just bloody ironic, isn’t it?_

Something must have been blocking the closet door. _Alohomora_ wasn’t working, and directly ramming their shoulder into the door every few seconds was not doing much good, either. At the very least, Lysander could confirm that this specific broom closet was free of deviants and other such types of child criminals. On the other hand, the closet was also positively not Lysander Scamander-free, so the scale was balanced.

It was not Peeves’ most inventive trick, and that was the most disappointing part. Lysander could respect the art of the prank, if there was an actual artistic flair to it whatsoever. This was just mindlessly dull, not even a story worth sharing.

But Merlin’s beard if the whole thing didn’t feel like a metaphor for their life. Trapped in the closet, scared, and uncertain if anyone would be there to help them through it all. 

Maybe Peeves had some sort of keen sense for irony.

It was growing harder to bear — the being in the metaphorical closet, not the literal one. _Eh, well that too._ Why was it so hard to simply say, “Hello, world. My name is Lysander Scamander, and I’m nonbinary,” and just keep moving on? What were they so afraid of?

 _Lorcan._ Well, not Lorcan alone, but people like Lorcan, or reactions like his.

As of the twenty-ninth of July, Lysander and Lorcan Scamander, first of their names (thank Merlin), were no longer brothers. In a very technical sense, Lysander never really was Lorcan’s brother, but that was not the point they were trying to make. They were no longer siblings, family, friends, what have you.

But the groundwork had been laid years before.

Lorcan never liked being an identical twin, and Lysander saw no fault in that. It was difficult for both of them to have their own separate identities. To the world they were the famous Newt Scamander’s great grandchildren, war hero Luna Lovegood’s twins, or plainly the Scamander “boys.” 

They were always dressed the same, given the same (questionable) haircuts, admired for being positively and completely indistinguishable. Every gift they received on birthdays, Christmas, and Hanukkah were packaged together, two halves of the same whole. Lorcan resented it, and by extension, resented Lysander. 

Lorcan just wanted to be normal. He hated travelling place to place with their parents, hunting fantastic beasts that were only ever rumored to exist, the family admired in the Quibbler and ridiculed in the Prophet. Lorcan wanted roots, a home, and a family that wouldn’t get him laughed out of every respectable institution post-graduation.

To a certain degree, Lysander understood how their brother felt. Their parents loved them both dearly and doted on them like no other, but sometimes travelling so often felt lonely. The Scamander twins did not have the traditional childhood home. Their parents moved about sporadically, from temporary apartments to relatives’ or friends’ homes. 

Without neighbors, the twins’ friend pool growing up was narrowed down to the children of their parents’ friends. They had spent several months, non-consecutively, at the Potter Home, which was far too massive for only five inhabitants anyway. The Potter children were the closest thing the twins had to cousins. While James and Lysander were always close as could be, James and Lorcan never quite got on. In many ways, James was more of Lysander’s brother than Lorcan, and that did not aid in diffusing the resentment.

Even still, the Scamander twins spent more time on the road for their first eleven years than anywhere else, and as Rolf and Luna Scamander’s fame continued to take off, Lysander saw less and less James and the rest of the Potter clan. Sure, the wonders on the roads never ceased, but Lorcan was always too disinterested for conversation, and they rarely stayed in one place long enough to owl back and forth with James, so Lysander took to journaling.

 _The Great and Wondrous Adventures of Lysander Scamander,_ they titled it _._ Lysander knew it sounded childish and silly, but it passed the time when they were alone with their own thoughts. Though they’d never prematurely tell a soul about it, Lysander really did hope to one day publish their experiences and actually earn their notoriety.

But in the meantime, they just missed having a brother.

Because the morning of the twenty-ninth of July, Lysander learned a new word. That word clicked every fragmented piece of their brain and soul together, creating a whole Lysander, a Lysander that felt authentic.

They learned the word in a muggle bookshop in New York City. The twins were staying with their great-great aunt Queenie for the week while their parents were off searching for the Jersey Devil (which was never actually found). Lorcan refused to leave their aunt’s apartment and explore the city with them, opting for the security and silence of plastic-covered furniture and old person smell.

This left Lysander alone, wandless and uncertain about the customs of American muggle culture (they really should have paid more attention when Monty talked about home), and they just wandered. If they looked misplaced, Lysander was none the wiser, as no one paid him any attention. Then again, they did see a grown man dressed as a rat rolling around on wheeled shoes, so… there was that to keep in mind.

If they were to be very honest — which they wouldn’t be with Gran Tina and Auntie Queenie — New York was not the place for them. It was chaotic, absurd, and hectic. Everyone seemed to walk like their lives depended on it, and for the love of all things magical, Lysander could not understand a solid half of what anyone was saying. It was like Kings Cross on the first day of term multiplied tenfold.

Where they not to have accidentally stumbled into the tiny bookshop on the corner of the street, Lysander would have accepted the loss and returned to listen to Auntie Queenie misremember the order of events of the Global Wizarding War. Instead, Lysander found refuge among steamed beech shelving and stacks of dusty, unorganized books. 

The bookshop had a comfortable silence, the kind that felt like those winter nights sitting in front of the fire of the Gryffindor common room with James and wordlessly doing their work. It was the kind of warm quiet that felt like in that very moment, you were so loved. It was a strange contrast from the honking and shouting just outside the glass pane doors, but it was a welcome change. 

Lysander felt safe to browse, walking up and down the isles and lightly running their hand across the spines, noting the changes between old book to new, hardback to paperback. They simply drank in the serenity of the moment, and for the first time since they had arrived in the States, the tension in Lysander’s shoulders floated away. Calm. 

That’s when it first popped out at him, almost screaming to be noticed: a section in the top left corner of the non-fiction books that said “GENDER.” Of course, Lysander believed in fate and destiny. They did take Divination very seriously, mind you, but the section beckoned them forward like magic, enough to almost make them wonder if they had accidentally happened upon a wizard shop. “GENDER” in all capital letters, and then a book just below it titled _Nonbinary (un)Defined_ by Kit Quinn, gold lettering against a scarlet background, and it seemed almost too perfect.

“Nonbinary,” that was the word they had been searching up and down for. That was the word that confirmed every question they had ever had about why there was a little black pit in their stomach that grew larger and angrier every time someone called them “son,” “he,” “boy.” It was the word that told them they didn’t have to be the perfect son, or the perfect daughter for that matter, they only had to be themself. And that was fine. And that was perfect.

The little black pit vanished, and it was as if the world had lifted off of their shoulders. Lysander bought the book with what little American muggle money they had on them, and raced back into the unforgiving streets of New York City. But it didn’t bother them anymore. They were free, and Lysander wouldn’t have cared a lick if anyone did want to look at them funny, because they finally knew for a definitive fact that they were not crazy.

Lorcan was reading the paper when Lysander came bursting through the door, waving the muggle book above their head and grinning wildly. Lorcan gave them a cursory glance, a bored expression and an unfeeling air to his manner, nothing newsworthy.

“And I suppose you’re excited about this new purchase?” Lorcan said, his tone flatly uninterested. Auntie Queenie must have been taking her mid-afternoon nap.

“I found it!” Lysander’s giddiness carried them over to the pink, plastic encased armchair across from Lorcan. They tossed the book over to Lorcan, who turned the book over in his hands and then set it on the table. “It makes so much sense, doesn’t it?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

“It means a person who is not in the gender binary,” said Lysander. “Not man or woman, perhaps sometimes both. I’ll have to actually read the book first, I think.”

“I see.” Lorcan had honed in his talent for being phlegmatic.

“Don’t you understand?”

“I guess you’ve defined it well enough for something apparently ‘undefined.’” Lorcan’s attention returned to his newspaper.

Lysander scooted to the edge of their seat. “No, Lorcan, what I mean to say is that’s me. You don’t have to worry about us being treated the exact same anymore. I’m nonbinary. It’s all so clear now, see?”

“How can it be so clear if you haven’t read the book, Lysander?” Lorcan retorted. He gingerly folded the newspaper and placed it aside. “You’re aware that this is what you always do, aren’t you? You think you’re more special than everyone, and then once the attention gets old, you find something new to be. Is it not enough that our whole school knows Mum and Dad are batty? Now you have to run along and be just as ridiculous?”

The little black pit returned and began to swallow up all of Lysander’s insides. Lorcan’s nose went farther up into the air.

“Merlin help me, don’t you see how bloody laughable we are to the rest of the country?” Lorcan continued. “I have to work twice as hard just to prove that I’m not insane like the rest of you, and it certainly will not help if you prance about spouting this stupid muggle nonsense. And you’d know it was nonsense, too, if you’d actually bother to read the damned book, but you have positively no follow through. It’s not real, Lysander.”

“Of course it’s real, Lorcan.” Lysander’s vocal chords were taut, and they were certain that if they made one wrong sound, they’d snap all together. “You’re my brother. How could you say a thing like that?”

“Precisely my point,” Lorcan’s voice raised a decibel. “You are my brother. I have no choice in the matter, but you are. If you had any respect for yourself or this family, you would drop this whole thing and not speak about it again to anyone.”

“But, James—”

“May be a Gryffindor, but even he isn’t foolish enough to buy into any of this.”

“Lorcan, please.”

“I think we’ve said enough for now.” Lorcan grabbed his newspaper, rose from his seat, and left for the guest bedroom.

When James owled four days later to hear about the trip, Lysander only informed him that the Scamander twins were no longer speaking. And they hadn’t since.

So that was what they were so afraid of: the dismissal and rejection of yet another person close to them. In total, only four people knew of Lysander’s not-so-little little secret. 

Lorcan, obviously, was not supportive. They’d only told Albus and Scorpius to calm the Slytherin duo after they had been caught snogging behind the large willow by the Potter House’s fish pond. (They really were terrible at being secretive about their relationship; nearly every prefect had caught them already.)

And Monty… well, Lysander just got the sense she’d understand. Monty could be volatile and sometimes downright volcanic, but they would never peg her as judgmental. That day, Lysander felt in their bones that they had to tell someone, and Monty was there. They knew Monty was always there.

Except when they were trapped in the fourth floor broom closet during rounds, she was not there then. 

Lysander did not want to be in the closet anymore, metaphorical or literal. Even though they did not always feel like it, they were a Gryffindor. Gryffindors were brave. Gryffindors were courageous. Gryffindors fought to be themselves openly and proudly, and they were (probably) not claustrophobic. Lysander Scamander was ready to say the word out loud again.

No, Lysander would not stay in the closet any longer. That was decided. That was done. 

And the broom closet door swung open.

* * *

Coming out would have been a whole lot easier if people would stop talking about James and Monty for even half a second. Lysander loved them both, truly they did, but not nearly enough to hear about them all hours of the day and night.

The rumour mill must have been dried up the past few weeks for people to still be harping on the same tired old drama of the former teammates turned bitter rivals. It was all so stupid, too. If either of them could swallow their pride and just apologize for being a complete bastard to the other, everything would be solved, and Lysander could return to focusing on the knives of anxiety piercing every single inch of their body at all times always.

But no, every new day was another song and dance of, “Did you hear what Monty said to James last night?” Inevitably followed by, “No, but did you hear about their fight in the Astronomy Tower Tuesday?” And so on and so forth.

Lysander had no way of knowing if any of it was true, either — not that they particularly cared — because they hadn’t spoken more than three words to James in weeks, and they knew far better than to bring up the topic of James Potter with Monty Baird.

James was still sulking, which was not unusual, but was growing to become most inconvenient. But there was nothing Lysander could do to stop it, as they had tried many times in the past to pull James out of his moods. It was simply a waiting game, and it was the longest one yet.

Still, the waiting game would not have been so bad if Lysander was not constantly bombarded by talk of the legendary (and absolutely not exaggerated) battles between Potter and Baird.

There was only one escape from the fray: Care of Magical Creatures. It had not always been Lysander’s favorite class. They had grown up around far more dangerous and exciting creatures, but there was one “creature” that was not accounted for in his great grandfather’s written work that made the class worth attending 

Archie Wright, while not a beast, was exceedingly fantastic in every way, shape, and form. Lysander had been aware of this crush since the start of second year. They had gone to watch Quidditch trials as James’ support system (who famously did not make the team), but stayed to watch Archie Wright soar high above the pitch looking to twelve-year-old Lysander like a great and powerful god. Realistically, Archie was quite inexperienced in flying and took several falls, and he was probably not even a quarter so graceful as Lysander remembered since he didn’t even make the team until this year.

Over the years, the crush had only grown more terrible and imposing. Archie’s voice got deeper, no longer squeaking and cracking, but a low, rumbling thunder that made Lysander’s stomach flip and turn over. Summer holiday only served to increase Archie’s looks, as his jawline sharpened and grew several inches taller. 

Lysander could not have been more grateful that prefect duties kept him out of their dorm so often, certain that accidentally stumbling upon Archie changing his shirt even once would cause Lysander’s head to explode into a public display of fireworks and fiendfyre. Their brain was a revolving door of wanting to get closer to Archie at all costs and wanting to never have to face him ever again for fear of swallowing their own tongue whole. But getting closer to the winter months resolved something: Lysander Scamander was going to be fearless in the face of love.

Probably.

Maybe.

_Ugh!_

The very least they could do was spend more time on their friendship with Archie, which was exactly what Lysander was doing. Much thanks to James and Monty’s (apparently biannual) Quidditch party blowout fight, no one would suspect any ulterior motives if Lysander were to hypothetically switch Potions partners to work closer with Archie. This change also benefited Greer, whose crush on Roxanne was somehow even less subtle than Lysander’s. It was a win-win for everyone involved.

Lysander just needed to work up the courage to hang out with Archie alone, really get the heart pumping, maybe even find out if Archie’s even gay. In the meantime, Lysander had to be content with mere proximity to Archie in their new little group.

They quite liked seeing Roxanne and Greer more outside of class and mealtimes. Of course, Lysander knew Roxanne a fair deal, but that was more because of James than anything. The world outside of James’ sphere of influence was pleasant, quiet even. And even though it made Lysander feel guilty to admit it, they didn’t really mind not talking to James as much.

But that still did not give them much escape from hearing about James.

So Lysander relished in their only class that was entirely James and Monty free. They never had to study one bit in Care of Magical Creatures and could focus solely on the sliver of gorgeous black bicep that Archie showed whenever he rolled up his sleeves or on the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. 

This was their moment. Lysander had spent all of rounds the previous evening contemplating the best way to get alone time with Archie, without being too obvious. The last thing Lysander needed was to be shunned by another important person, now was not the time to mull over loss. Now was about gain, success, or at least a good, solid attempt. Lysander had spent all term paying close attention, and knew Archie was struggling in the class. That was their in.

When class ended, Archie had already bolted towards the door, no doubt eager to get to lunch, and while Lysander hadn’t hit the same level of growth spurt that James and Archie had over summer holiday, their legs were long enough to play an easy game of catch up.

Archie was just ahead, just a few more long strides away. Lysander adjusted their posture, flicked their white blond hair away from their face, and prepared to make their move.

“Lysander, do you have a minute?” Nadim Bahri’s voice broke their concentration.

Lysander stared after Archie’s retreating figure and sighed, their shoulders deflating with it. “Uh, yes. I’m free.” They composed themself with a polite smile, hoping that Nadim hadn’t read the disappointment scrawled all over their face.

“Brilliant!” Nadim grinned and fell into step with Lysander’s pace. “You’re good mates with James Potter and Monty Baird, yeah?”

Lysander nodded. So much for having a James and Monty-free hour.

“Right,” Nadim continued. “Well, I was wondering if you knew what was really going on between them. Like do I have a chance?”

“With James?”

Nadim laughed. _Even his laugh is proper._ “No, with Monty. I’d very much like to get to know her better, but I wouldn’t want to overstep. It’s probably in my best interest to stay on a Potter’s good side.”

“Why would dating Monty put you on James’ bad side?” Lysander asked. 

James and Monty fought, sure, but Lysander was sure that James wouldn’t automatically despise everyone who came into friendly contact with her. He’d never took much issue with Conor Knearnaught last year, other than with the fact that Conor Knearnaught was kind of a boring git.

“Oh, so the rumor isn’t true, then?” Nadim perked up.

“I don’t know what rumor you’re talking about.”

“That James and Monty are secretly together.”

It was Lysander’s turn to laugh. That was the most ridiculous rumor they’d heard to date, even more unbelievable than the rumor that Scorpius was really Voldemort’s son (and that one died quickly because it was so inconceivably stupid for anyone to believe that the noseless bastard could convince a female to reproduce with him). James and Monty were more incompatible than an incompatible couple could be, and that included Voldemort and Scorpius’ mum.

“You’ve got to be joking me, mate!” Lysander continued to laugh. They couldn’t begin to picture James and Monty being nice to each other long enough to even kiss, let alone date. “Who came up with that one?”

Nadim seemed pleased as pumpkin punch with the reaction. “I heard it from Calvin, who heard it from Sade, who got it from Kieran Gaiety.”

Kieran Gaiety was a sixth year Hufflepuff prefect, a large and tall boy with the promising beginnings of a beard. Lysander hadn’t spoken to him more than a handful of times, but knew him to be a nice enough person, even if he was a massive gossip. He was the king of the Hufflepuff rumor ring, though no one quite knew where he got his information.

“I don’t think Kieran Gaiety is the most reputable source,” responded Lysander. “Especially on Gryffindor affairs.”

Nadim shrugged. “I was told he’s a direct descendant of Nostradamus.”

“And you believe that?”

“Five years ago, I didn’t believe in wizards, so I try to be less skeptical,” said Nadim. “But I’ll take your word that Potter and Monty are not together. 

Which leads me to my next question: Would you be alright with switching rounds with me this week? You can do rounds with Mariana on Thursday night, and I would do rounds with Monty on Saturday.”

Nadim gazed down at them, and his light green eyes sparkled with hope. _Bloody hell, am I short?_ Lysander didn’t mind not doing rounds with Monty — they spent half the time apart anyway — but Lysander really did not want to work with Mariana.

She was tiny, but terrifying. Mariana always sat alone, and Lysander had never once seen a smile on her face. It was widely assumed that she was a blood purist and did not find anyone at Hogwarts up to her standard. Lysander had no opinion on that one way or the other.

But Lysander really wanted Saturday night free to try and study alone with Archie. They sighed, defeated. “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind.”

* * *

Thursday night came all too quick for Lysander’s liking. They’d spent the early half of the week dreading the interaction with the infamous Mariana Caticovas. By the time Lysander arrived at their meeting place in front of the Prefect Office, Mariana was already standing there, rigidly upright and examining her wand with disinterest. As always, her small mouth was set in a hard frown and a single thick eyebrow was raised. Even so, she was attractive in an intimidating, fear-for-your-life type of way.

But Lysander was their mother’s child, and Merlin damn it if they weren’t going to try and make a friend out of Mariana Caticovas.

As Lysander approached, Mariana scoffed and folded her arms. “I still don’t understand why Nadim insisted on changing rounds.”

_Or maybe not._

Lysander spent the entire first half of rounds on the balls of their feet, afraid that a stray squeak from the heel of their shoe would frustrate Mariana. She kept her gaze focused on the corridor ahead of them, her wand drawn and ready to fire if needs must. The hallways were deathly silent, not a Peeves within earshot, but that was only the second thing that kept Lysander tense.

Mariana refused to split rounds — insisting she was not Montgomery Baird, and therefore would not act as a stand-in for Montgomery Baird — so the pair navigated down each pathway in tandem and in silence. 

They had rounded the west corner of the third floor when Lysander heard the crashing and rumbling inside of a nearby classroom. The Gryffindor (in traditional Gryffindor fashion) was preparing to break through the door and spit their most dangerous defensive spells. Hit ‘em with a little bit of _Expelliarmus,_ the one-two punch with _Petrificus Totalus._

Mariana’s hand flew in front of their stomach to stop them, and Lysander looked over. Her nearly black coloured eyes were wide and her finger flew to her mouth to demand silence. She stowed her wand into her robe pocket and used her free hand to grab Lysander’s elbow and lead them down the corridor and around the nearest corner to safety.

She sighed in relief, the first quasi-positive expression Lysander had ever seen her emote, and ran her hands through the ends of her thick, black curls. They watched on in a complete state of confusion as the small girl closed her eyes and rhythmically took in deep breaths. After about half a minute, she opened her eyes, nodded, and continued down the corridor back in the direction of the occupied classroom.

Lysander did not immediately follow, uncertain of what the next move was. Mariana noticed the hesitation and turned back to face them.

“Come along,” she said. “Peeves is gone now.”

“Peeves?” Lysander began to tread on her heel.

“Certainly you must’ve heard the bells of his hat,” Mariana responded, as if it was obvious as the sky itself.

“Not over all the crashing, no.”

“Oh.”

The pair resumed the rest of their rounds in silence, though Lysander felt considerably more comfortable knowing that Mariana apparently had the capability of sensing Peeves’ very essence. The stone hallways were perfectly empty, only the echoes of the prefect pairs’ footsteps bounced up and down, from floor to ceiling. And Lysander wished they did, but they had nothing to say to the girl walking next to them.

“I’m not mean, you know,” Mariana said, abruptly cutting through the silence. The corners of her mouth twitched, suggesting an attempt at a smile. Or maybe a grimace, Lysander couldn’t tell. “At least, I don’t try to be. It’s very difficult to make new acquaintances, you know.”

Lysander smiled at her. “I understand.”

They had circled back to the front of the Prefect Office. “I’ll let Eros know about the Peeves disturbance.”

Mariana headed towards the descending stairs. Lysander waved at her. “G’night, Mariana.”

“Good night.”

And Lysander counted that as a definite win for the evening.

* * *

Finally, Lysander could get off the topic of James and Monty, and they were home free to obsess over how exactly to come out to their friends and… Merlin on high, their family.

It wasn’t that Lysander was worried that their parents would be unsupportive, but rather the exact opposite. Lysander’s mum had a habit of going way overboard on all things.

Once Lysander mentioned to their mum that they didn’t like the color teal in passing, and she subsequently threw out all of the family’s belongings that bore any similarities to teal. It was sweet, and Lysander knew it was stupid to complain about it, but still they were worried how extravagantly their parents would express their support.

Lysander shivered in humiliation at the sheer thought of a massive coming out party held at the Potter Home and a large (definitely not teal) banner reading “IT’S A THEM!”

Furthermore, Lysander couldn’t bear to imagine the heartbreak on their parents' faces upon learning that their only son had so cruelly and callously disowned his own twin sibling.

But it was one step at a time.

For now, Lysander could focus on how to tell their friends, starting with the one and only James Potter.

Everyone knew that James was not a fan of change. He would pretend to be a go-with-the-flow type of person, but ultimately the slightest tweak to his routine could cause him to snap. 

This was made evident by yet another adjustment to the Potions seating arrangement. Lysander knew that leaving James to partner with Archie was bound to irk their bespeckled best friend. What Lysander did not expect to bother James so terribly was Nadim leaving his partnership with Mariana to become Monty’s Potions partner.

Mariana was more than fine to work alone, being second only to James in the subject, but as far as Lysander could tell, James spent the better part of double Potions focused intently on the back of Monty’s head.

Normally, it wouldn’t have drawn Lysander’s attention one bit, but they had determined earlier in the morning that today would be the day that the Great and Wondrous Lysander Scamander was going to come out to their best friend, and James’ seething over yet another new Potions partnership was going to be a sizable blockage in Lysander’s path. But an angry James was easier to work with than a sulking James, so Lysander would just have to power on through.

As soon as Slughorn dismissed the class, Lysander shot up out of their seat, waving a combination apology and goodbye to Archie, then darted over to James’ side. James jolted at Lysander’s sudden presence, but composed himself with a nod of greeting.

“Afternoon, Jamesie,” said Lysander, miming a tip of the hat. They hoped their bright tone might draw James’ attention away from Nadim and Monty’s direction, who were deep into their own private conversation. “Care to take a walk with me?”

“Huh?” James broke his attention away, albeit reluctantly. “Oh, yeah, sure. The usual?”

The usual Scamander-Potter pathway was — in it’s most technical sense — against Hogwarts’ rules, possibly illegal, but Lysander had never looked too far into it. It was just past the Whomping Willow into the Forbidden Forest, and if James and Lysander had ever been afraid of the forest before, they certainly were not anymore.

For the entirety of the walk to the edge of grounds, James was sullenly silent, pierced only by the offhanded huff or scoff. His arms were locked together, crossed, and about once every half minute, he rolled his hazel eyes back into his head.

Lysander waited until the precise moment James’ foot stepped over the edge of the forest to grab their copy of the Prophet out of their book bag, roll it up, and smack James over the head with it. He recoiled, and in true James Potter fashion, his hand flew up to “fix” his untidy dark waves.

“What was that for?” James cried.

“For being a complete knob,” replied Lysander. “Now you want to tell me what’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into me?” James threw his hands up and started down the way further into the wood. “Have you gone mad? What’s gotten into Baird is the question. C’mon, Nadim Bahri? Really?”

Lysander followed suit. “Since when do you have a problem with Nadim Bahri?”

“I don’t! It’s just—” James pushed up his sleeves and examined his forearm. “He looks just like me!”

“Nadim doesn’t look anything like you.”

“We have the same skin colour.”

Lysander tried to look closer at James’ skin, but he was waving his arms about too wildly. “I mean, kind of, but that’s where the resemblance stops.”

“Don’t you see?” James turned towards them, and began to shake Lysander’s slender shoulders back and forth. His eyes were gleaming with madness. “She’s just going out with him to irritate me.”

 _Fuckin’ hell, Nadim was right!_ How could Lysander not have seen it before? Were they a terrible friend? Of course James liked Monty! It was so obvious, the attention seeking, the fighting, the moping. It had all been going on for years, right under Lysander’s nose.

“And where the hell have you been?” Lysander had been so consumed with the crushing reality that James was so obviously obsessed with Monty Baird that they hadn’t noticed that James was still on his rampage. “I’ve been having the depressive episode of my lifetime, and you’re off snogging Archie Wright! Some best mate, you are.”

“I’m not ‘snogging’ anyone, James.” So James knew about Archie, but Lysander didn’t know about Monty? Some best mate, indeed.

“Sure you’re not,” James said — his voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm — but his disposition grew sunnier. “Replaced me, have you? You’re my best boy, Sander dear. Am I no longer yours?”

Lysander could not fight the wince that cracked through their otherwise mild expression. They had an idea about how one was to come out. There should be some build, an emotional speech preceding it, perhaps, but they supposed now was as good time as any.

“Wait, you haven’t really replaced me with Archie, right?” James stopped walking, and his face was fraught with concern. 

Lysander didn’t know their heart could beat so fast, or so loud. The tiny black pit in their stomach resurfaced, expanding with every breath and threatening to take hold of their entire being. But Lysander did not want to be trapped — alone — in that locked dark closet anymore, not again, not ever again.

“No, it’s not that. I’m—” They sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m not a boy at all, actually. That’s why I haven’t been around much recently, and I’m sorry for that. I’ve been giving myself a lot of space to think about it a lot. I’ve wanted to tell you, but after how Lorcan reacted, I was worried that you wouldn’t accept me. But that was stupid, and I know that. So that being said, James, I am nonbinary.”

For a moment, there was nothing. James’ eyebrows scrunched together, and his eyes went up towards the skyline just as he always did when he was processing deep information. And Lysander’s whole body was still, numb, and they weren’t sure if their soul was even inside of their skin. 

Then, James’ mouth broke out into his biggest grin, the kind he saved for Quidditch victories, top marks in Potions, and just about any time Lily learned a new skill. He swept Lysander off their feet and into a tight gripped bear hug, spinning the paler, smaller teen in circles. 

“Lysander, that’s wonderful! Thank you for telling me.” James placed Lysander back onto the pine needles of the forest floor. “You are still ‘Lysander?’”

“Are you kidding?” Lysander laughed in relief, their blood unfreezing and once again returning to circulation. “My name rhymes. I’d sooner die than give that up.”

James flung his arm over their shoulder, and together the Gryffindor pair heading back towards legal ground. At least for that moment, there were no brothers divided, unrequited crushes, or houses torn asunder. There were only two best friends, side by side and united in all things moving forward.

“Wait,” Lysander spoke again. “Do you even know what ‘nonbinary’ means?”

“Not entirely.” James shrugged. “But I’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So six thousand words was not originally my plan for this one, but hopefully there are no complaints there. As always, I'd love kudos and comments of all kinds! Thank you for reading!!!


	11. Partners in Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new partnership causes James a deal of inner turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for such a late update! The last chapter took a lot of energy out of me, and then life just swooped in and kept me busy. Although this chapter's a bit shorter than the last few, I still hope it is well received. Enjoy!!

They’d ruined Potions. James hadn’t thought it previously possible, but they’d really done it now. Potions was his sacred space, hallowed ground, and they had gone and desecrated it with their public displays of being bloody disgusting.

The talking, the flirting, the momentary lingering of overlapped fingers on a jar of eye of newt. It was heinous and appalling and offensive. It was Conor Knearnaught all over again, and oh if James didn’t despise the living hell out of Conor Knearnaught.

Conor Knearnaught hadn’t done anything particularly wrong, per se. He was mild, uninteresting, and the tiniest sliver of self-important. Still, there was something glaringly off about him, like a bright red blinking sign over his head — like the ones they have in the windows of muggle shops — screaming “Oi, hate me! Hate me!” So who was James to disobey that?

Perhaps he just didn’t want to admit it, but the naive, hopeful part of his brain was steadfast and wholly convinced that she was still James’ friend. After all, she was the first person that talked to him in weeks. She’d noticed that he was missing from classes. She was worried that he hadn’t eaten. She cared, even if it was only a little bit.

How did he repay her? He violated Rule 3 of the List of Subjects One Avoids with Monty Baird: her relationship with her immediate family. James usually thought best to just avoid mentioning her family all together, thus his limited scope of the family dynamic. All he did know was that her mother was crazy, her older brother was a soulless wanker, and her younger brother was an airheaded egomaniac. He also knew that last Christmas, things went very, very bad. 

Something James was abundantly cognizant of was that he was terrible at apologies, and Mum would not ever dare let him forget that. It was in times like those where James would defer to his secondary attempts at regaining favor: Always being there.

Admittedly, his tactics did not garner a one hundred percent success rate, and it may have been the reason that he was not on the best of terms with Leland, Miles, and Niamh. But what else was he expected to do?

So he was there starting little arguments at the Astronomy Tower, bickering with her on the way to Charms, waiting by the door for her once she got out of Arithmancy. Every time she engaged, occasionally she would even start it, and that meant something. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it felt electric. It felt like they were friends again. It meant something.

It was almost as if she’d forgotten all about the little chance encounter that night outside the Battle of Hogwarts Portrait Hall. It was something the old Monty did, come to think of it. 

James was not always the most tactful wizard in Britain, or at least so he was told. In about four-odd years of acquaintanceship, he had offended Monty more times that he could bear to count. Every time, she’d ignore him for a few days — maybe a few weeks if he did something particularly odious — and then they’d resume companionship as if nothing had happened between them to begin with. It was certainly a shock to the system at the start of term when she was holding a grudge over something of which he had no recollection. 

She was not being friendly towards him now — that was still consistent — but with every passing glib remark, James felt that sparkling champagne warmth in his stomach he’d always felt when they bickered. He was perfectly content with their new normal.

Besides, she was the only one who’d give him the time of day while Roxanne and Rose were busy despising him and Lysander had their brain painted with salacious thoughts of Archie Wright’s rippling muscles, or what have you. 

So for those few short weeks of November, everything was more than fine. Until… 

“Isn’t your skirt a little short for regulation, Miss Baird?” James called to her from his usual Potions seat. He didn’t like to dawdle in the halls before Potions, and was always the first to class.

In fairness, her skirt was approximately an inch shorter than was considered ‘uniform,’ not that James was complaining. At the start of class, she was likely to close her robes and hide the rest of her outfit, so it would not matter in the eyes of sacred Hogwarts law, but James enjoyed the way his teases and taunts would make her cheeks and nose turn a bronzy sort of pink. But the blush did not come this time, and neither did a response.

“Oi, Baird, you lost your hearing?” James waved his hand at her for emphasis. Nothing, still.

Monty sat down directly in front of him, which was not her usual seat. She tossed the full weight of her hair over her shoulders, the pleasant chocolate brown, but not styled in its usual calm waves.  _ Since when does she wear her hair straight?  _ It then occurred to James that she wasn’t wearing her glasses either, and her constellations of freckles across her face were covered with a thick cloud of makeup. 

James cleared his throat. “Sure you’ll be able to read the ingredients?”

Monty’s head whipped around. Her hair gained a fair amount of length from its new texture and would have struck his eyes were his own glasses not holding fort. “Playing Twenty Questions, are we?” Her voice held a smidge more annoyance than it had in the prior days.

“Twenty Questions?” James muttered to himself, then broke out into a lopsided grin. “I was just concerned you’d lost your glasses. Potions is one of your weaker subjects, isn’t it? If I were you, I’d actually like to be able to read the directions.”

Lucy and Niamh took their seats in the front right corner of the room, locked in close conversation.

“Charms is one of your weakest subjects, isn’t it?” Monty retorted. Her nose scrunched up in distaste, and for a brief moment, James was convinced he saw the hint of a freckle. “If I were you, I’d actually like to show up.”

“It’s cute the way you always mirror my format when we argue. If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it, I always say.”

Monty’s amber eyes glinted as they narrowed, murderous, calculating, and all the while constricting at James’ heart.  _ That’s odd.  _ The deep rose flush flash flooded across her skin, and James jolted with exhilaration at the intended reaction. His smile broadened.

“You have something in your teeth,” she stated.

James recoiled, sharply covering his mouth in embarrassment. Her lips parted as she smirked.  _ She would be satisfied with that.  _

The rest of the Gryffindors had filed into their places, followed soon after by Martin, Warren, and Mariana. James did a once over his teeth with his tongue, then laughed.

Monty was smiling, fully and without the usual shroud of mockery. James felt his chest expand, and the tinder of hope ignited in the pit of his stomach; it was over, no more below the belt blows and petty disagreements. Then, James realized her eye line was aimed far past his shoulder.

Despite his better judgement, he turned around. Nadim Bahri, with his irritating green eyes and coiffed black hair, sauntered over and lowered himself down into the seat next to Monty. He leaned into her — no doubt murmuring honeyed nothings — prompting a girlish giggle from the smaller brunette and a gag from any other reasonable onlooker.

Perhaps sensing James’ attention, Nadim turned towards him and nodded at James in manicured, political politeness. “Afternoon, James.”

James only half grunted in response and spent the remainder of the double period focused firmly on the silhouettes of the poorly fitted Gryffindor-Slytherin combo. 

It just didn’t make any sense to him. Monty was vibrant and sarcastic and not overwhelmingly and ostentatiously dull, unlike  _ some people.  _ For the life of him, James could not comprehend why Monty consistently shot far below her league. 

On a similarly stressful note, James could not comprehend why Professor Slughorn allowed blatant canoodling in the very front and center of his classroom. It was unbelievable the sort of antics that Heads of Houses would let the members of their own house get away with.

Potions was a time for focus, concentration, and precision, not hushed inside jokes and upper arm caresses. It was obscene, and James would not stand for it.

They’d ruined Potions.

“Afternoon, Jamesie!” Lysander broke his concentration from the back of Monty’s head. “Care to take a walk?”

_ Stupid Nadim Bahri.  _ There was something about the whole situation that really rubbed James the wrong way. Maybe it was that Nadim Bahri was so poised and perfect and flawless, and ultimately he had no discernible personality. Maybe it was that you’d have to be truly, deeply slimy and suspicious to be sorted into Slytherin as a muggleborn. Maybe it was because up until last week, James never had any reason to dislike the poor chap.

But it was because in nearly every way that mattered, Nadim Bahri was the polar opposite of James Potter.

* * *

Some things were getting better, at least James could take solace in that. Yes, his cousins were still openly shunning him, and his brother hated his guts, but he had Lysander in his corner again. If there was one thing James Potter (the second, mind you) was a true talent at, it was finding the silver lining.

… Maybe he had been slacking ever so slightly on the optimism lately. That would be a fair assessment. James wouldn’t fault you for arriving at that conclusion, but damn it if he wasn’t going to deliver now.

Now, it was time to pull away from the utter audacity of Montgomery Baird and Nadim Bahri’s so-called “relationship” and focus on the bigger picture of fixing absolutely everything that had gone so painfully wrong in the past two months.

He’d once again secured the favor of Lysander Scamander, meaning that cohabitation with Archie Wright was bound to follow suit. (He’d long since given up hope with Leland Digby and Miles Wen, who seemed to hate his entire state of being.) His next best bet of regaining his social status (and sanity) was to make up with Roxanne for his poor showing at the Gryffindor victory party.

Believe it or not, James had never once had a falling out with Roxanne in their entire fifteen years of living. Of his cousins, Roxanne was by far the closest to him. Sure, he was quite close with Rose now, but from their earliest days, it was James and Roxanne, Roxanne and James. Partners in crime… so, so many crimes.

But over the past two years, Roxanne began to pull away from their shared interests. It started with ending their legendary pranks. Then it was their midnight adventures to the Quidditch Pitch to practice their own made up plays. Then it was their Thursday night study sessions. Before he knew it, one drunken rant led to the end of their friendship.

He’d let all of the endings slide. Roxanne was her own person, and he respected her choices and exertion of free will, but he would never even dream of releasing their friendship.

They would always be family, sure, but there was a difference between family and friendship, he thought. Family was like what he had with Lucy. They loved each other in a formal way, almost as if they were business associates always closing in on a deal. But Roxanne was the friend that he shared his secrets with, that he would go to the end of the line alongside.

And she hadn’t dared look his way in the past month and a half.

The holidays were sprinting towards them, and he’d be damned if he was going to spend all of Christmas Day avoiding and being avoided by a good chunk of his family members. He was going to fix things, piece by piece… if only he knew how.

Somehow, James had gotten it into his head that his best bet was to stalk Lysander wherever they went. They were never with Archie one-on-one, because (as much as James loved them) Lysander was a complete coward when it came to affairs of the heart, and such always travelled with a pack of some creation. Eventually, they’d be bound to wander their way into a group encounter with Roxanne.

The moment finally came in the library. Frankly, James was surprised that Lysander hadn’t noticed that he’d followed them from the dorm to the Great Lake all the way to the library, but success was never to be disputed in his mind. Besides, Lysander’s brain was far too muddled with the intoxication of proximity to the ever dazzling Archie to pay any mind to the poor super secret spy skills of one James Potter. (James didn’t exactly get the Archie Wright hype, but that was more likely his final confirmation of his own heterosexuality than a condemnation of Archie’s physical appearance).

James hovered behind the adjacent bookshelf, waiting for the perfect lull in his friends’ conversation to make his entrance.

“This class is getting worse every year,” Roxanne groaned, and James could hear the rustling of parchment. “I heard from Kieran Gaiety that they’re thinking of cutting Defense all together. Can you believe that?”

“Not if it’s coming from Kieran Gaiety,” responded Lysander. “No.”

Marta Walsh, a mousy little seventh year Gryffindor, shooed James out of her way. He held his hands up in surrender, knowing all too well of the hexing capabilities Marta possessed. She snatched a book out from behind him, and then made out on her merry way.

“I hate that we’re all supposed to pretend like there aren’t legitimate threats out there,” said Archie. There was a pause, but certainly not one meant for James’ grand entrance. “I get called ‘mudblood’ week in and week out by Martin Goyle and Warren Nott, and I’m expected to defend myself with — what — ‘Theory of the Great Dueling Defenses?’”

“I dunno,” said Lysander. “It’s a pretty thick book. If you just sorta fling it at them…”

Archie’s laugh rang out, prompting a sharp hiss from either another student or Madam Pince herself. The rest of the group snickered in retaliation. James figured that this was as good a chance as any, but was swiftly cut off by the continuing conversation.

“We should start the next Dumbledore’s Army!” Roxanne exclaimed. She went surprisingly un-shushed.

Archie’s distinct snort of laughter came again. “And who would the army be fighting against?” 

“Boredom.”

_ There’s my cue.  _ James slipped out from behind the bookshelf, noting in passing that one of the larger books was  _ Ending Conflict in Family Disputes  _ by Sabine M. Chenonceau. Why in Merlin’s good magical name that was a necessary addition to the hallowed grounds of the Hogwarts Library, who could say, but James was getting rather tired of the universe mocking him so brazenly. 

Greer spotted him first, smiling initially before seeming to remember that she was meant to be upset at him. She then huffed and turned her buttoned nose up at him. 

Roxanne — from her place next to the small blonde — noticed the commotion and turned her head towards him. Her dark deep-set eyes narrowed and her upper lip curled in disgust. Not the best greeting from a dear cousin, certainly, but understandable all things considered.

Without thinking, James’ left hand flew up into his hair, while his right hair adjusted his rectangular glasses. His smile was lopsided and wavering, but he was determined to maintain the façade of composure.

“Hi, all,” he said.

Lysander and Archie finally noticed his presence. Lysander lifted a single (quite nearly translucent) brow at him and nodded in encouragement.

“I, erm,” James' voice shook in nervousness. “I was hoping I could have a chat with you, Rox.”

Roxanne regarded him with even coolness. The rest of the world seemed to freeze with her as her eyes scanned his face for any sign of betrayal. Then, with a sigh, she relented.

“Fine,” she said to him. She turned to the rest of the group. “Don’t have too much fun without me, eh?”

Greer noticeably deflated, but she made no move or comment.

Roxanne led the way to an unknown meeting ground, and James followed out of fear of turning the tide. He stared ahead, focusing on her short curls that did not move as she walked, and remained silent. For a brief moment, James considered that he had made a mistake approaching Roxanne first, but then she stopped and turned to face him.

They had arrived at their old hideout in the forgotten staircase on the second floor. The old stone staircase had fallen into disrepair some many years before they’d ever arrived at Hogwarts, and wherever it led to before had since been sealed off and forgotten. For the first few years, James and Roxanne had hypothesized about what existed beyond the blocked off entryway, but when the pranking ceased, so did the visits to the lost stairway. Until then.

“So you’re apologizing,” Roxanne did not ask, she stated.

He nodded along. “That was the plan, yeah.”

“Then on with it.”

“Alright, alright,” James said. His defensive tone was not serving him well, so he decided it best to soften his approach. “Well, obviously we had a bit of a spat a while back—”

“ _ We _ didn’t have a spat,” intruded Roxanne. “You went on a bloody rampage.”

“I’m getting to that,” he said. “You didn’t tell me that you were offered the Captain position first, and I was embarrassed that you turned it down for me. Everyone already thinks that I earn everything just because I’m a Potter or a Weasley, so I don’t know, it hurt. But I took it out on you, and that was… uh, bad?”

Roxanne’s eyebrows knitted together and clicked her tongue. The air between them was unstirred, unsure of which way the wind would blow, and it was at that moment that James realized exactly what Mum meant when she said he was dreadful at apologies.

“James, I mean this in the nicest way possible,” said Roxanne. She clasped her hands together. “You have the most horrendous habit of thinking only about yourself. 

Did you even once consider that maybe me turning down the Captain position had absolutely nothing to do with you?”

James felt a shiver run down his spine — shame, humiliation, guilt — and he looked squarely at the crumbled stone step below his shoe. He carefully prodded at a loose bit of gravel with the toe of his loafer to avoid direct eye contact.

“I suppose I hadn’t thought of it,” James replied.

“I don’t even really like Quidditch all that much anymore,” she sighed. “I liked it at first when I played for me, but there was so much pressure to be like Mum and Dad — or the rest of the family for that matter — that I just can’t stand it anymore.

You don’t realize it, James, but the kind of pressure you and I are under is so different. You don’t have to wake up every day and prove that you really are a Potter.

Ever since I could remember, people would ask me if I’m ‘sure I’m a Weasley’ because I don’t look like what people think a Weasley should look like.

I thought I had to do everything my dad would do just so people could see the resemblance. It doesn’t matter if I have his smile, or his laugh, or his... ear. But if I played Quidditch well enough and planned elaborate pranks with my cousin, they’d know I’m a Weasley. And you know what?”

James shook his head.

“It didn’t matter,” continued Roxanne, exasperated. “If people still don’t see me as a Weasley because I don’t have the pale skin and the red hair, fuck ‘em! I’m Roxanne bloody Weasley, and why should I give a fuck what anyone thinks of me. I’m not going to let Fred grow up looking up to me and think that it’s appropriate to pander to a crowd that sees you as lesser than just because we don’t look the way they want us to, so I’m done doing what’s expected of me.

So no, I don’t want to be Quidditch Captain, James, and that has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh,” said James. “I guess I never even considered that people wouldn’t see you as the coolest Weasley.”

In her clearest sign of good showmanship, she rolled her eyes and bumped into him with her shoulder. Gingerly, she removed the Captain pin from her robes and placed it into the palm of James’ hand. The silent transfer of power between two cousins who were friends again, and they sat on the dusty steps of the abandoned staircase away from the rest of the Hogwarts population.

“You know, it’s shit when Lucy and Molly get all the clout of being Weasleys over me and Fred.” Roxanne’s smile cracked open. “No offense, but Uncle Percy did pretty much fuck-all during the war. My dad didn’t get his bloody ear blown clean off by a Death Eater for his kids to play second fiddle to Uncle Percy’s spawn. He’s the least important of the lot.”

James snorted. “What about Uncle Charlie? I don’t remember hearing any stories of him storming in wand ablazing.”

“Uncle Charlie gets points for the dragons,” she quipped. “The dragons are cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hopefully there aren't too many errors and mistakes out there. My brain is seven degrees of fried, so I'll do my best to comb through for any typos I may have missed while editing. Nevertheless, I'd love some comments and kudos if you're so willing. I'll see y'all next chapter!


	12. Eight Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December is a hectic month as it is, but for eight nights straight, Monty Baird gets no rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes... you plan a short chapter, and then accidentally write ten thousand words. 
> 
> TW: Some mentions of antisemitism and self-harm.

As far as Monty was aware, the Prefect Office was sparsely used by anyone other than their tiny little pack. 

With end of term exams looming over the student population of Hogwarts, it had become nearly impossible to find a table to study at in the library, and no matter how hard she tried, Madam Pince had no conceivable way to keep the volume level at a minimum. By the end of November, the distant echoes of heels against stone flooring had been replaced by frantic quill scribbling and page turning. It was hardly a hospitable environment for learning.

That was when Sade had suggested the Prefect Office. It hadn’t occurred to her as a place to inhabit any time outside of meetings or rounds schedule postings, and evidently Monty was not alone in this train of thought. Together in the warm glow of firelight gleaming against mahogany furnishing, Sade, Natalia, and Monty resided to compare notes and spellwork. 

It was convenient — considering that each of them best specialized in different subjects — but mostly, it was just fun. Monty had never had a solid group of close female friends before, at least not in this way. She had friends that were girls, to be sure, but every group was always marred by the presence of the male species. She enjoyed the idle gossip, exchanging of makeup tips, and everything far removed from the world of boy talk… sort of.

Natalia had been right about Nadim liking her, and that meant that whatever “Don’t get me started on James Potter” meant had to have some validity to it as well. Only, what in Merlin’s good magical name did it mean? Among all the gossip and discussion of teenage melodrama, getting started on James Potter was the one topic Monty was exceedingly fearful of broaching. 

Naturally, she considered that maybe James did like her in that obnoxious, boyish, pulling on a girl’s pigtails at the swingset in Kindergarten type of way. On the other hand, Monty knew what James’ usual course of action was when it came to crushes, and it was all rather straightforward and (dare she say) mature. 

So what the hell did Natalia mean?

“Monty!” Sade’s cry of frustration broke her out of her James Potter-induced haze. “I can’t get this stupid charm’s pronounciation right.”

Natalia snorted, then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “Don’t you speak six languages?”

“Four.” Sade stuck her tongue out in jest. “But none of them Latin.”

“You bothered learning four languages, but not the one useful for spells?” Natalia’s azure eyes twinkled. _Oh, good, flirting._

“It’s not my fault! Most Nigerian spells are derived from Hausa and Yoruba, which happen to be two of the languages I speak. Thank you very much.”

The Ravenclaw appeared to be sufficiently pleased with the response and returned to her doodles on the edges of her Charms notes. Natalia had really grown comfortable around the group, surpassing her shyness and mild manner and even bordering on boisterous on occasion. Even still, Monty noticed that Natalia was still significantly more reserved around Sade, often stammering through her sentences and avoiding direct alone time with her. Monty supposed that on occasion, she was only invited along as a buffer, but she did not mind that much.

That was mostly because she needed some desperate help with Herbology, in which both Sade and Natalia particularly excelled.

“I’m gonna fail,” Monty groaned and repeatedly tapped her forehead with the feathered end of her quill. “How am I expected to talk to Longbottom about my future career if I’m failing his class? He’ll never help me!”

“Hey, we’re working on Charms first!” Sade waved her half-finished notes at Monty.

Natalia scribbled on her own parchment, grunted, and threw her quill down onto the dark wood desk. “Bloody thing won’t work! God, I miss pens.”

“Here, use mine,” said Monty, handing Natalia her only muggle pen. “Merlin, I think my brain’s broken.” Herbology was the bane of her existence, and the textbook being practically ancient in its prose was not helping in the slightest.

The office spiked in temperature. Monty became aware of how the collar of her shirt was itchy in the places that her tie pushed on and how her own handwriting shifted and blurred together. 

Sade was slumped back in her chair, her dark, golden brown eyes not as shimmery with characteristic glee. Even her hair, normally a halo of fluffed raven curls, had seemed to deflate with her mood. Monty supposed that it must have been exhausting for Sade to always maintain such an exuberant disposition. There was something serenely beautiful about seeing her behind the curtain, even if it was just for a moment.

Natalia’s delicate brows were raised and knitted together, her lips parted, and her eyes distant with longing. She seemed rather accustomed to pining after Sade, and it was enough to wonder how long she had been at it. 

The heat of the room no longer felt stifling, settling now into a warm embrace. Monty was content to watch her friends as they were, as if she weren’t even in the room at all, but watching through a window pane. Enough so that she regretted not having this form of closeness with them before and was desperate to increase it.

Sade shot up in her seat, the entire vibration of her being seeming to rise with her. The Hufflepuff’s pearlescent grin returned, just as enchanting the thousandth time as the very first time Monty had seen it.

“We need a break,” Sade stated with a crisp nod. “What are we all most excited for this winter season?”

Monty sighed. “For it to end.”

“Cheers to that,” echoed Natalia. She raised her empty inkwell to toast.

Sade’s hand flew to her chest as she gasped. The firelight licked across her face in tandem with the horrified lines of expression. “Not even Christmas?”

Monty shuffled the mess of stray parchment together in a pile, filing notes and essays into her (increasingly tattered) bookbag. “Especially not Christmas.”

“And I’m Jewish,” added Natalia, who followed suit in stashing away her heaps of parchment into her own bag.

“How did I not know that?” Monty asked. 

Natalia shrugged.

“Well,” began Sade. She folded her hands together and rested them on the table. “What about Hanukkah?”

“We don’t celebrate it anymore,” said Natalia. Her gaze fell to her lap, and she shifted under the gold freckled gaze of the Hufflepuff girl. “It’s not a story you’d want to hear.”

Sade’s weight shifted forward onto the table, holding herself up by her elbows and propping her head up on her knuckles. “We’d like to hear it. Right, Monty?”

Monty tilted her head in indifference, not wanting to sway the vote either which way. She became aware once more of the itchiness where her collar and tie were married.

“Oh, no.” Natalia waved it off. “It’s a massive mood killer.”

“Please,” Sade begged, and Monty was sure that the Hufflepuff’s puppy dog pout was bound to be Nat’s deciding factor.

“If you’re sure.” Natalia sucked in a breath and sighed it out. “I’m warning you. It’s dark.

My family moved to Augurbury, when I was around seven because of my mum’s job. Before that we were in Hertfordshire, which has a pretty decent Jewish community, so I don’t think my parents expected for Augurbury to be… a tad hostile towards Jewish people. 

"I don’t remember it being bad at first. Just some taunts on the schoolyard, but then things started to really escalate. Then one year, first night of Hanukkah, someone threw a brick through our dining room window.”

Monty’s blood froze in its stream, her whole body becoming glacial, and the air escaped her lungs. Sade looked bewildered, with wide eyes and a hanging jaw.

“I don’t understand,” said Sade. Her eyes glistened. “Why would someone do that?”

“Some people hate Jews,” replied Natalia with a mirthless smile. “My great grandfather fled Poland and changed the family name because of that. Mum and my older sister straighten their curls; we stopped wearing our Stars of David around our neck, and we don’t celebrate our holidays anymore because of that. We leave town on Jewish holidays in case the attacks get worse. We’re scared.

"And when I got my letter to come here, I thought things were going to be better, but it’s the same thing. It’s just a different prejudice.”

The flames in the fireplace were no longer popping and swelling, but had stilled and dimmed the office. The last remnants of light refracted through the teardrops on Sade’s cheeks. 

Monty realized for the first time that History of Magic did not teach about muggle wars in the way her American elementary education had. Not even Muggle Studies had broached the topic of muggle against muggle prejudice. It was the first Sade had heard of it. Still, whether it was the first time or hundredth that Monty had heard stories like Natalia’s, it was no less horrifying to her. It was familiar.

“Told you it wasn’t a story you’d want to hear.” Natalia’s voice crackled and wavered. The flush in her cheeks had dissipated and left her colorless, only unshed tears in a light ocean gave indication of life at all. “But enough of that. Monty, why don’t you like Christmas?”

“Natalia.” Monty was firm. “Just know that I’ll do anything in my power to defend you.”

“I really appreciate that.”

Sade sniffed and maintained a locked gaze towards Natalia. “Do you miss it?”

“Hanukkah?” Natalia softened. “I do. I miss all of the holidays, but Hanukkah was always my favorite. My sisters would get so mad at me for always winning at dreidel, so Mum would make me share my little chocolate coins. There was a special kind of closeness, I think.”

Sade locked eyes with Monty, a mutual spark igniting behind each of their dark eyes, and there was an immediate understanding. It was going to be no Natalia Truitt left behind, as it always should have been to begin with.

The Hufflepuff placed her hand atop the Ravenclaw’s and squeezed it for comfort. “I will always be here for you, Nat, truly.”

Natalia turned poppy red at Sade’s touch, and she could barely manage to give a nod in thanks. Monty settled into the comfortable lull in conversation and smiled to herself.

Closeness.

* * *

Lysander had switched rounds with Nadim so often the past few weeks that Monty had nearly forgotten that they were meant to be her partner. As much as she enjoyed Nadim’s company, she had really grown to miss those evenings alone with her friend.

Their relationship had not yet fully recovered from the night of the Gryffindor victory party, and neither had her relationship with most of the other Gryffindors. Roxanne, Greer, and Rose were all still intent on ignoring Monty’s very being, and to a degree, she couldn’t blame them. It hadn’t escaped her notice, however, that James appeared to be back in favor with the rest of the lot. _Of course Potter’s easily forgiven._

In fact, out of all of them, James was the only one treating her this side of normal. He’d grown to be more of a pest than usual after their spat in the dungeons, but there was still a semblance of commonality to their incessant bickering.

But Sunday evening rounds called for a different approach for the younger Scamander twin, full steam ahead to approach camaraderie.

There were twice as many torches up than usual to light the corridors, which meant twice the heat. It had been snowing something awful throughout the previous evening and well into the next morning, enough so that it had been next to impossible to walk the grounds. Monty was not one to relish in the cold, so the extra torch heat was well received.

Lysander had never seemed to mind the cold so much, at least not that Monty noticed. They had always blended in quite well with their snowy complexion and winter blue eyes. While Monty knew very little of genetics, she assumed that the paleness of the Scamander twins probably served them well in frigid temperatures.

That also made them terribly boring to play against in snowball fights. (Though Lysander was a magnificent teammate, if you were lucky enough to get them on your side.)

They had reached the fork in the stairwell where the pair usually branched off from one another, but Monty stopped in her place.

“You’re Jewish,” Monty began.

“Oh?” Lysander said, and drily raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed.”

She rolled her eyes. “When does Hanukkah start?”

“Day after we leave for holiday,” they said and started towards the ascending staircase.

The staircase shifted to the left just before Lysander reached it, then moved off the corridor platform. They huffed, annoyed.

“Damn,” Monty grumbled. She followed after Lysander, and the two waited for the staircase to return. “I was hoping to throw something for it.”

“I know you like a party, Monty, but don’t you think it’s a bit classless to use a holiday of a culture you aren’t a part of as an excuse to host an event?”

The staircase had come back to its original landing, and Lysander began their ascent. Their longer legs made for far strides, but Monty was able to hurry after with relative ease. The heels of her shoes clicking against the hard stone alerted Lysander of her presence, and they turned to face her.

“It’s not for me,” said Monty. Her breathing was slightly labored, and perhaps scurrying up the stairs to keep up was not as easy as she had imagined it. “Natalia hasn’t celebrated any of her holidays in years, so Sade and I thought it’d be nice to do an intimate Hanukkah gathering for her in the RoR. But what do you think?”

Lysander hummed. “I actually think that’s very nice of you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well,” Lysander turned to face the top of the staircase as it arrived on the next floor. “Nice hasn’t exactly been your go-to move in the past couple months now, has it?”

She gaped at them. “I resent that!”

“I’m sure you do.”

Monty did not much like the upper floors at night, even with a companion by her side. She did not know them as well as she did the dungeons. The creaks, drips, and moans of the hallways’ ambience were unfamiliar, and if something were to be out of the ordinary, she would be none the wiser.

Still, Lysander appeared to be well enough at ease from corner to corner that Monty was sure that they’d know when to ready their wand. On the other hand, Lysander did have enough unfortunate run-ins with Peeves, that it was completely possible that at any point they could lead her right into the line of fire. The keenness of Lysander’s situational awareness was up for debate.

But it was quiet enough.

“Would you be interested in helping us?” Monty asked. She sprinkled sugar in her voice and batted her eyelashes, which rarely ever seemed to work on anyone other than James. _Suspicious._ “Sade and I checked through the library early this morning, but there was nothing on holidays. We did learn that Hogwarts had a ban on Jewish students from 1367 to 1522, though. History of Magic really glossed over that bit.”

“It always does,” replied Lysander. They paused for a moment, then sighed. “Yes, I’ll help you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still upset about what you did to Roxanne.

"Now, if Natalia’s anything like me, the most important part of Hanukkah will be the food. Best food in the world is latkes, and don’t let anyone tell you different. You’ll want to write this down.”

Monty pulled her notebook and (only) pen out of her bookbag. 

“Continuing on,” said Lysander. “If you do plan on decorating, avoid anything Christmas-y. Some people will say that Hanukkah is Jewish Christmas. Those people are wankers.

"Perhaps we should start with the history of Hanukkah…”

* * *

The library was uncommonly empty for a Monday evening. Perhaps it was the general burnout of excessive mass studying or the epidemic food coma from the reintroduction of chocolate peppermint pie at dinner that night, but Albus and Monty were lucky enough to have a whole back corner section to themselves

Scorpious had come down with a cold earlier in the weekend, of which Albus was evidently spared. Albus said that his beau was always terribly unpleasant whenever he was ill — mama’s boys, what can you do? — so that night, it was just the one Slytherin and a Gryffindor together, alone. 

Had Albus focused a bit harder on his Charms lessons and a bit less on Scorpius’ lips throughout the term, he might have been a touch more prepared for his upcoming final exam. Instead, he had to call upon his trusted Charms tutor for a last minute study session. He was fortunate that Monty had the time… and a self-made study guide on hand.

“What’s this?” Albus pulled the study sheet to his face for closer inspection. He did it often enough that Monty frequently wondered if he was in dire need of glasses like his older brother. Her eyesight gave out around thirteen too, she supposed. “ _Carpe Iactare?_ We weren’t taught that.”

“Hm?” Monty peered over at the parchment, upside down, from across the table. “Oh, there are some supplemental charms on the guide. I used them for extra credit my third year.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Well, let’s work it out,” she said. Albus groaned and slunk down into his chair. He possessed the same level of patience as James when it came to studying things he didn’t understand. Though, to be fair, Monty wasn’t one to hunker down and focus on subjects outside her own realm of expertise.

Albus scribbled into his notebook — a pristine little leatherbound book that Monty had to wrangle him into purchasing at Hogsmeade, saying it would be more useful for notetaking than loose parchment. He was not always the most well organized young man, which she could only assume was a trait Scorpius’ obsessive neatness made up for. “ _Carpe_ is to seize, like the Seize and Pull Charm. So… is _Carpe Iactare_ the opposite? Seize and throw?”

“Yes!” Monty beamed. “Great work, Al.”

His green, almond eyes sparkled with pride, and it seemed almost as if he’d been starved for praise. It must have been an awfully big shadow to live in, being named after one of the greatest wizards who ever lived. “Why do you even know that?” 

“I liked to use it to throw things at your brother during Quidditch practice,” Monty said. “He’d get so pissed.”

Albus’ expression soured and churned over like expired milk. She was normally quite careful in avoiding mention of James, and although she did want them to reconcile, she never commented on it to the younger. He set his quill down beside his notebook and fiddled with his fingers. 

It hadn’t occurred to her before — well, perhaps it had, but the thought was never loud enough to really take stock of it — that she had been closer with each of the Potter brothers than they had been with each other, at least in the last few years. Her relationship with James was now… turbulent at best, certainly, but he had once been one of her very best friends. Now Albus was one of her only friends. But they were two brothers lost in their connection with one another.

And it hurt them both so deeply. If they would ever set aside their pride long enough to admit it, Monty was sure that they could be brothers again. No longer estranged, but real, genuine brotherhood. 

“I’m thinking of telling him,” whispered Albus. He always whispered when he talked of James, even when he didn’t use his name. As if James’ very being shook him to his core. “Figured Christmas is as good a time as any.”

“Just him?”

“I’d like to tell Mum and Dad,” he said, his voice stronger. “Maybe I’ll tell Lily. But I know if I told Dad, he’d slip up and tell Uncle Ron. Then at Christmas dinner, it’d be ‘So, Al, heard you’re a flaming homosexual. So proud of you.’ Then my grandmum would try and set me up with Everett Westinburgh and every other gay bloke she comes across.”

Monty fought the urge to giggle. No one could claim that Albus was not vivid in his depictions of his family, although the reliability of the narrative was questionable. “At least they’d be proud that you’re a ‘flaming homosexual.’”

“That’s not really the part I’m worried about.”

“No?”

“They do not like Scorpius,” he grumbled. His eyes clouded over with bitterness. “Mum and Dad let him tag along sometimes, but I’m worried that they’ll ban him from the house if they know he’s… more than a friend. And James already hates him. Won’t even talk if he’s in the same room. He still thinks all Slytherins are purists.”

The bitterness passed and was replaced with the dreary mist of melancholy. It was unspoken, but Albus truly believed that James thought he was a mirror of the Slytherin stereotype. That was what always tore the two apart from one another, Monty thought. They each thought the other disapproved, two poles, oppositely magnetized, casting the other away. In the most miserable way, it was sort of funny. The Potter brothers were really rather the same.

“Are you sure you’re ready to tell him?” Monty’s eyebrows wove together.

Albus frowned and looked toward the ground. The expression must have been a family trait, as she’d seen it worn on James on the many occasions that he’d get in a state, though the youthfulness sparked memories of losing to Slytherin on the first match of their third year. 

James had nearly cried, blaming himself for the loss. From that point on, he’d begged his parents not to come see his games, but Monty never got any confirmation if they heeded his plea.

“I’d rather tell him than have him find out,” said Al. He gave her a look — the kind of look that read as ‘I don’t want to end up in your situation’ — and she couldn’t fault him for feeling that way, even if she wanted to. “Speaking of, are you ready for another Christmas?”

No, she was not. She was not ready for what was historically the most unbearable holiday in the Baird-Montgomery household, and she was certainly not ready to get the individual laundry lists of complaints from each of her family members, including her ailing grandmother. (The witch couldn’t remember Monty’s name, but somehow could still sift through her thoughts to compile a thorough analysis of why Monty was the utmost familial disappointment.) 

“Oh, I’m practically bursting with anticipation,” she said, flatly. “Nothing screams holiday cheer like an emotional beating from the whole family over my accent, my clothing, my house, or because I had the audacity to bring up my… never mind. 

"Then after dinner — which is at 2:30, because my gran is ancient — I get to go to a pureblood gala at Bulstrode residence, where Warren Nott and Martin Goyle will inevitably call me a ‘revolting halfblood,’ or some unimaginative derivative of that, and spit at my shoes. 

"So, yeah, you could say I’m ready.”

Albus gaped at her in horror, to which Monty shot him a honeyed smile. “Blimey, that’s awful.”

Monty flicked her eyebrows up and widened her eyes in morose agreement. _Awful’s just the half of it._ She thought of the thousands of times she had tried to beg for just one Hogwarts’ Christmas from her mother, one holiday away from the incessant taunting and nagging, but alack, it was never so. 

Montgomery Hall had never been a warm residence to begin with, far more like a palace than a home and a great deal different than her childhood home in Colorado. It grew colder at Christmas, inhospitable and harsh, as the memories of the dead seemed to haunt the halls. Members of the family that were not meant to be spoken of again after their passing, but they all hung on the family tree and writhed around for any sign that they ever existed in the first place.

And her father was one of them, a portrait unmoving, non-magical, and not at all bearing any likeness to the man Monty remembered, unmentionable.

“Well,” Albus said. She must have been staring off into the unknown, as he looked even more concerned than he had before. “You’re always welcome at the Potter House.”

To be honest, Monty had always wondered what the Potter House was really like. James never liked to talk much about his parents, as for the first few years at Hogwarts, many people only befriended him for proximity to the Potter-Weasley fame. So Monty pushed aside her curiosity about the inner workings of the family and never asked for information that wasn’t freely provided.

“Thank you, Al.”

* * *

It seemed recently that Monty rarely had a night by herself anymore. Everything was rounds and studying and listening in on conversations in the fifth year girls’ dormitory in which she was unwelcome to partake. She had been on the ever tipping seesaw of overstimulated and unbearably lonely, but then again she’d been on it for as long as she could remember.

She’d finished her coursework before dinner, and instead of planning out a group trip to the library, Monty had decided by desert that she was going to take some time for herself. 

It had absolutely nothing to do with the Magical Congress of the United States of America’s Presidential Election results that were expected to broadcast that evening. Monty supposed the election did not much matter, considering the fact that it wasn’t much of an election if the opposition of the incumbent had mysteriously passed or disappeared for the past four election cycles… but hey, that wasn’t Monty’s place to judge.

From what Monty understood, MACUSA had shifted farther into dictatorship than a democratic republic. While muggle America had their fair and balanced governmental body (though her Aunt Jen would argue otherwise), MACUSA had fallen into the trap of farcical elections and a government that acted against the public’s best interest. But Monty had never been a part of that world. She’d never been allowed in.

There had been no word of the election results on the radio yet, only a Worty Greenbolt song followed by a song by the Manticores followed again by more Worty Greenbolt in an agonizing pop-y loop. 

Monty had actually made some great strides in reconfiguring her CD player, though she supposed she would not have gotten half so far if Natalia and Sade hadn’t hopped on to help with the project. They had successfully enchanted the motor to run and spin last week (though they haven’t convinced it to stop spinning yet), which had previously seemed like the biggest hurdle.

What she hadn’t quite grasped was exactly how the little disc turned into sound. Records had been easier, with their visible grooves making contact with a visible needle. There was supposed to be something about lasers, but the whole concept was sprinting away from her at record time.

Monty was prepared to call it a night and pack things up when Lee Jordan’s voice cut through (the third play that hour of) Worty Greenbolt’s ‘Bat Bogey.’

“The results are in,” Lee Jordan said. “Despite his approval rates falling below fifty percent just four months ago, incumbent president and leader of the conservative Hodag Party Ernest Wurtelbee has been projected as the winner of the 2019 MACUSA Presidential Election.”

Monty’s heart sunk.

Lee Jordan continued through the speaker, “Wurtelbee’s re-election comes only two months after the apparent suicide of opposition Maritha Peerview, who was the sitting senior member of the Chessie Party. 

"Peerview’s vice presidential pick Shireen Adelburg continued the campaign as the party’s presidential candidate, maintaining the late Peerview’s platform focusing on repealing sanctions that prohibit the government from recognizing witches or wizards with direct non-magical heritage.

"Adelburg’s press team has released a statement—”

Monty switched the radio off, her clammy fingers slipping as she did. Her body went numb, empty, and she didn’t know for how long, but it felt as if she had completely left her body. 

It wasn’t going to get any better. They weren’t going to get any justice — none of them — and no one was going to do anything about it. The last of the fairytales had shattered, and she resented ever being taught them to begin. Good does not always defeat evil in the end.

But tomorrow she was expected to go back to classes and clubs as if nothing outside their little bubble was wrong, like she’d been doing since she first arrived at Hogwarts. She didn’t know if her peers knew what was happening outside of the UK, or if they just didn’t care. Either way, she felt isolated and damn well near abandoned.

It was time for Monty to accept that she was never going to be able to go back to America.

* * *

Wednesday classes were hard enough without the hovering threat that the previous night’s news had thrust upon her. She didn’t necessarily mind Wednesday night Astronomy, and admittedly it did help that she didn’t have rounds that night, but her focus was placed nowhere near Professor Sinistra’s lecture.

Monty spent the entire period with her gaze fixed firmly in the direction of the skyline. Maybe the lecture had enough to do with that particular area of the sky that Sinistra took it as engagement, or maybe she had a solid enough history of high performance in the class that her professor didn’t care. Either way, she went undisturbed.

When the class ended, Monty dispersed from the rush of students that were descending the stairway to head to the warm embraces of their bed. Instead, Monty went up to the very top of the Astronomy Tower to watch out into nothingness and collect her thoughts.

All day, her brain had buzzed and bubbled with words that she could not begin to translate. Every room was a block of sound, impenetrable and immovable, always hitting her full force and never ceasing to give her a moment's rest.

Yet though all the chaos piercing through every inch of her brain, Monty remained entirely unfeeling. There was no warm, no cold, pain, nor pleasure. She only felt a slight vibration as a small consolation that she was still there. 

She wanted to cry. Desperately, she wanted to feel an ache in her chest or the churn of her stomach. The digging of nails into the palms of her hand and scratching at the skin on her legs elicited no physical or emotional response.

The December air was tepid and without breeze, and the sky had clouded over to hide all traces of star or moon. There was pitch blackness out there, and she wanted it to be terrifying, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything. And the buzzing was growing louder.

Then, as if by some miracle, a voice broke through the midnight wall of sound and silenced the rest.

“Evening, Baird.” The smirk in James’ voice could be heard before it could be seen. His cocky sideways smile that was always uninvited, and yet uncannily on cue. “You have to be freezing up here.”

The breeze picked up, and James was (irritatingly) correct. She was freezing, and it must’ve been the iciness of the wind that had been causing the numbness of her face. Monty had been so unfocused that she didn’t once notice that it was snowing, all day apparently, and her only protection from the biting temperature was her robe.

“You’ve been checked out all day,” James said. He leaned up against the stone archway, one leg lazily crossed over the other and playing with the tip of his wand in an exaggerated way that Monty knew he did just to call attention to his hands. “Boy troubles?”

Even without moon or starlight, James was highlighted in perfect view, tall, athletically slender, and easy to look at, if his ego could be overlooked. His hair was neatly coiffed, which she had never seen him do before. If she were to be truthful (which would require the influence of veritaserum or a whole handle of firewhiskey), it made him look less like James, and therefore it made him ever so slightly less attractive.

“Hate the hair,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, and it was then she realized she hadn’t spoken the entire day until then.

James cocked a single eyebrow. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Really committed to stalking me now, aren’t you?” Monty retorted. Her irritation boiled in the pit of her stomach, and a warm steam began to heat up her face into a deep pink blush. “Careful, Potter, desperation’s not a good color on you.”

“Desperate?” He reared back and scoffed. The wind must have blown the clouds away, considered the way his bright hazel eyes glinted against the light of the moon. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you going out with Nadim Bahri? Man’s got about as much personality as a mandrake. And I thought Knearnaught was bad.”

Monty took a step closer to him. The irritation began to burn closer to anger, her fuse becoming shorter by the second. James never failed to pick at her open wounds, festering into a deep seeded hatred that was moments away from harvest.

“Right, and how many girlfriends have you had again?” Monty bit. “We both know how you enjoy shooting higher than you can aim. Though, I think this might be the very first time you’re concerned with someone other than yourself. Brava.”

He pushed himself off of the wall and stalked up to her. His pants had grown tighter at his thighs and amplified his long-legged movements. A single black curl fell out of its styled placement and fell just above his eyes. James’ lips had parted, but no clever riposte had made its way out from between them. 

It may have been his scarf and sweater under his robes, but James’ body was radiating waves of heat, and they were threatening to pull Monty into the tide. They were nearly face to face now, or as close as they could be considering she was roughly a full head shorter than him. Against her better judgment, Monty could imagine how it’d feel for James’ biceps to envelope her into a closer embrace.

In the recesses of her mind, Monty could hear the marching of the battalion coming forth to seek audience with her, all of her anxieties and emotions that she had been trying so diligently to mask surging forward. In the light of James’ natural glow, she was in the spotlight, and she knew she wouldn’t withstand the pressure much longer.

_No, no, no, no, no, no._

Monty’s mouth opened slightly, as if she meant to speak, but nothing came out. The wind caught on, and silenced as well.

James’ eyes flicked down to her lips.

“What’s the matter, Baird?” James whispered. “Something got your tongue?”

Monty shivered, as if a lightning bolt had struck her spine, and she jolted back away from him. She gasped for air, and her lungs felt scorched and scarred.

James jumped back as well, no doubt startled by the sudden change in atmosphere. The wind, too, had chosen to resume whipping and whirling, screeching out its untamable symphony.

“What did I do?” James reached his hand out to try and calm her, but she staggered away from it. “What’s going on?”

Monty shuddered. Frigid bursts of air tore through her, and the block of sound pounded at her again. And she felt everything, all of the repressed memories and feelings that she’d been hiding away for months and months had been thrust forth into the spotlight of James’ attention.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to choke it down this time, and it was only moments from erupting.

“It’s— it’s all of it!” Monty exclaimed. There was no bottling it up now. “It’s my family, and my dad. And it’s that I lost all of my friends this year, and it’s my fault.

"And I’m so tired. All the time, I’m tired. It feels like no matter how much I want my brain to be quiet, it just never stops moving. Have you ever been in traffic? Like properly in a muggle car in traffic, and everyone’s only moving a few feet at a time, but they’re all honking at each other and yelling. That’s what my brain feels like, and it sucks.

"Then everyone just thinks I have this super short temper, but I’m really just keeping all of the things that hurt really close to my chest, and then I burst open, and I can’t stop it. Like right now, I can’t stop it. I feel my mouth moving and words pouring out, and I want it to stop. But I can’t.”

James’ entire body appeared to soften, and he was no longer this large, imposing figure, but a warm and welcoming presence. By all accounts it should have made her feel better. Why didn’t she feel better? Why was there just more hurt and rage seeping through every inch of her body?

“And it— it’s you, too!” She turned away from him and began to pace in a small circle. Then she stopped. Her brown eyes swirled over in agony, and she locked onto his gaze. “From the moment you met me, it’s like you’ve always made it your mission to remind me that I don’t belong here.”

“What do you mean?” James’ voice raised a decibel, defensive and taut. His expression began to harden, and his eyebrows knitted together, in what Monty could easily recognize as the beginnings of his anger. “What makes you say that?”

“That night—”

James drew up to his full height once more. “What about that night, because I’ve been racking my brain for months to figure out what I did that was so bloody horrible that you completely despise me. Pray tell, what happened that night?”

For a split second, Monty honestly felt that she may have thrown the whole situation out of proportion. An inkling of embarrassment and shame crept up in the back of her brain, but she’d run too far with it now to back down.

James pushed his glasses up onto his forehead to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“You prod at everything different about me,” she said. “My accent, my nationality, my family, and you never know when to stop.

"That night, you gathered around Leland, Miles, Archie, and just about everyone you could find that didn’t like me, and you blamed me. For what? Losing a stupid game?

"You let everyone believe I threw the match — the Cup — so that my brothers could win. You were the only person who knew how my own family had rejected me, and you just sat there and perpetuated it.

"Then you said, ‘I see why Ilvermorny wouldn’t take her.’ And just… why? Why did you say it?”

The whirling thoughts and emotions running rampant in Monty’s brain suddenly stilled. There were the pleasant waves of peace and release, and then all at once there was nothing. Stillness. A weight lifted off of her.

But James was stricken, pained. The weight had been lifted from her, yes, but placed squarely onto James’ shoulders. It looked to be crushing him, and she wondered if this was the first time he’d ever realized that his words to and about others bore real consequences.

They remained silent and uncertain of each other’s climate. James’ hand made its way into his hair, mussing up its clean style, and returning it to its natural state.

“I…” James trailed off. “I don’t know why I said those things.”

That hurt her more than she expected. He gave her no apology, no explanation, and took no responsibility for the impact of his words. 

_Typical._

“Right then,” she muttered. Monty plucked her bookbag up from the floor and made her way towards the door. “Night, Potter.”

* * *

Monty’s energy levels had been thoroughly exhausted. She’d spent every night of the past week flipping over and under every brand of emotion, and if she could, she would have preferred to spend the next forty-eight hours completely unconscious.

She had briefly considered sending herself to the hospital wing to avoid rounds that night and class Friday, but the Gryffindor spirit inside her compelled her to finish the week strong. Besides, she only needed to finish rounds, and then she was home free to perfect her Hanukkah feast design for Saturday night.

Sade had graciously taken on the food preparations, living closer to the kitchens and having a keener working relationship with the house elves. She’d also sent out her invitations, and hopefully, she was heeding Monty’s request that it be an intimate gathering for Natalia’s own sake. 

Lysander was nowhere to be seen and uncommonly late. The Gryffindor prefects met outside the Fat Lady’s portrait a quarter past ten, but this evening they were missing. Monty had never done all of rounds alone before. She very much would have liked to not start now, but Lysander was officially ten minutes late, and she craved the comfort of her down pillow and comforter. 

Monty set off down the corridor to the Prefect Office, deciding to double check the schedule in case she’d made an error and this was not her night for rounds. She dressed in extra layers — wearing a turtleneck under her thick sweater and fleece lined tights under her skirt — to make up for her lack of warmth the evening before. But mostly her layers were to avoid her anxious habit of picking at the skin of her arms, which she had done all last night in lieu of sleeping.

The corridor of the Prefect Office was not empty, blocked by the familiar frame belonging to Nadim Bahri. Nadim’s hair was as perfectly neat as it always was, but somehow all the more recognizable. Evidently, he did not share Monty’s sensitivity to the cold, as his white button-up’s sleeves were rolled up just below his elbows. His style gave off the air of construction, but not effort, as if he tried, but never labored. In many ways, Nadim reminded her of an actor in those classic Hollywood films.

He grinned as she approached and checked his watch. “Lysander must have forgotten to tell you it would be me tonight.”

“Ah, Gryffindors,” Monty said and tapped her temple with the end of her wand. “Unreliable memories.”

This was really not the best night for her to be spending time with Nadim. She liked him just fine, maybe just a little too… fine. But what Monty had been hoping for after such an emotional whirlwind of a week was a quiet stroll with her friend, where they split up in the middle of things and met back up at the end of it. An evening where she had to put on her best face and keep up with witty banter was not what she had in mind.

Also, her hair was kind of greasy, and she had a zit forming on her chin that was causing her an enormous amount of pain.

How was she expected to keep up under conditions like those?

So instead, Monty decided she would be best suited to simply listen as Nadim talked about his summer interning at the Ministry, which was surprisingly interesting.

He had shadowed several departments over the summer months, including the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, the Department of Magical Transportation, and his personal favorite, the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Nadim thought himself best suited for international relations, having been taught some Arabic by his mother and some Punjabi by his father, although he worried his blood status would affect his ability to mediate with certain foreign governments. By his knowing glance, Monty could only assume he was well-versed in the blood discrimation enacted by MACUSA.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Monty said. She’d been raised to avoid touchier topics by her mother, but that didn’t always make for interesting conversation. “How does a muggleborn student get an internship at the Ministry?”

Nadim seemed pleased at her inquiry. “Well, it’s all rather Slytherin of me, but over the years, I’ve had to do quite a bit of kissing up to my more well-connected peers. At first, for survival, but I suppose it paid off more than I expected.”

“Sure,” Monty said, bitterly. "But then you have to hear all the purist bullshit spewed by Nott, Goyle, and Caticovas.”

Nadim titled his head and furrowed his brow. “Mariana is not a purist.”

“Isn’t she?”

“No,” he said. His voice was firm, and Monty was a bit embarrassed to admit that it made her stomach flutter a bit. “Mari’s very anti-purist, her family less so. But I don’t think I know anyone who hates Warren and Martin as much as she does.”

The corridor seemed to stretch farther and farther out, playing mind games and tricks to lengthen the journey.

“I guess I kind of thought all the Slytherin purebloods were the same,” admitted Monty.

“Only a Sith deals in absolutes,” joked Nadim. He then turned a shocking reddish shade, outside the bounds of his usual composition, and began to stammer. “I… I’m sorry. That was—”

“Star Wars!” Monty laughed. “I know. My cousin, Cole, is obsessed. He has a whole collection of lightsabers and everything. We used to do marathons when I would visit.”

Nadim’s prim and proper demeanor was shed and replaced with a giddier version of himself. His smile grew fuller, and his stunning green eyes sparkled with glee. It was then that Monty saw how truly remarkable his physique was. Before, he’d looked like a catalog model, beautiful but untouchable, but as he stood there gushing with excitement over his passions, he finally felt human. Real. (But still really, really hot.)

Then they stopped trekking through the endless hallway, landing in front of a bare stone wall. The air was still enough that Monty could hear each inhale and exhale of the pairs’ breath. Though she’d never been that close to Nadim before, she felt a sense of recollection, deja vu almost. It was a feeling she’d felt before, likely not too long ago, only she couldn’t place it.

“Monty,” Nadim whispered. “If I’m not being too forward, I’d like to kiss you. Is that alright with you?”

Why was it so familiar? 

She smiled and nodded, nonetheless.

Nadim leaned forward — and down a bit, as she was a decent amount shorter — and took her cheek into the palm of his hand. His hands were large, soft, and a warm distraction from the week she’d just experienced. Nadim’s other hand pulled her in from the small of her back, gently and easily. His heavy lids concealed his jade eyes, and Monty took her cue to shut her eyes as well. Their lips connected, a soft and kind kiss.

Then in her mind’s eye (and against her will), the image of James Potter’s rippling muscles holding her in a tight embrace, emanating tantalizing waves of heat, and the sweet feeling of his breath as he whispered only centimeters away from her face, all lit up on an otherwise blank screen. Flashes of memories, ones where they’d been only moments away from their lips meeting, filtered through her head. Photographs on a projection wheel.

It finally dawned on Monty — the thing that had been screaming at her to be acknowledged — that the boiling irritation that began in the pit of her stomach whenever James and her had argued had never been hatred, but something entirely different, something she did not dare put a name to. Something that could not be ignored much longer.

Nadim pulled back from the kiss, his lips reddened, and his eyes shimmering with bliss. Meanwhile, Monty felt mortified and immobilized.

_Shit._

* * *

It seemed that every corner she turned, either James or Nadim were waiting for her, and around every corner, she effectively dodged them. The game was increasing with difficulty as the each hour of Friday ticked by, and there were less places to run to.

In the Great Hall, the Christmas decorations had begun to surface. Garlands and colored ornaments bobbed and weaved through the air, high above the students, but just low enough where Monty had to suppress the urge to jump up on the table and tear them down. The ‘fa la la la la’s in Frog Choir just after lunch served to harden her resolve to detest Christmas for all eternity.

Friday dinner was an insufferable display of (practically pointed) denominational foods. If Monty had ever liked peppermint before (which she did, as it was her favorite flavor of tea), she certainly could no longer stomach it. Why is there a need for Christmas tree shaped food, one may ask? Monty could not give you an answer. It went beyond her comprehension, and likely could only be dissected by the greatest of minds.

James did not seem to even try to hide his staring, and perhaps his parents had accidentally overlooked the bit about ‘staring is rude.’ Still, his hisses and whistles for her attention across the table went staunchly ignored. And that seemed to irk him even more.

Monty hadn’t said a word to him since Wednesday night in the Astronomy Tower. She had been pretending not to hear him each time he called out to her, and she hoped that he would have gotten tired by now. As usual, she underestimated his commitment to the cause.

Once dinner ended, she was quick to dart up and towards the exit, but was blocked by a slow moving herd of second years gossiping about who Kylie Travers (whoever she may be) was dating now. Monty was stuck, without a clear beeline to the door, and James Potter, with his _(luscious)_ long legs, was bounding ever closer to her.

As if by miracle or unconscious magic, Sade Agrinya was only a few steps in the direction opposite James, and with exceeding ease, Monty was able to slip into step next to her.

“Good evening, Sade,” said Monty. Her breathing was labored, whether from physical exertion or anxiety. “How’re things coming along?”

James had disappeared into the crowd. Sade and Monty continued on through the door.

“Hanukkah-wise or life wise?” Sade asked. She wore a hard set frown and held no bounce in her step. “Hanukkah’s all set for tomorrow on my end.”

“And life?”

Sade groaned. “Not so great. O’Hare has been killing me with extra practice this week. He wants me on the pitch almost every day now, and when I’m not practicing, I’m doing rounds or homework. I forget what sleep feels like!”

Monty raised her brow. “Why’s he working you so hard?”

“As if you don’t know,” Sade muttered. Monty had never seen her in such a state. “Potter’s back on as Captain, and I heard he’s making changes.”

“Really?” Monty hadn’t heard. The pair exited the Great Hall and rounded the corner, heading in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room. “Well, so what, you saw how terribly they played against Slytherin. You’re bound to beat them.”

Sade scoffed. “I didn’t last time.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“That was the textbook definition of my fault!” Sade threw up her hands in frustration. “I shouldn’t have gone for the Snitch while you were still ahead. I mean, you, Rose, and Danica were practically on fire with how much you were scoring.”

That was true, even Monty couldn’t deny it. The Hufflepuff v.s. Gryffindor game last term had been the best Monty had probably ever played, the best the whole team played. If Ravenclaw hadn’t utterly decimated Slytherin, Gryffindor could have won the Cup while still losing to Ravenclaw. That game might have been the last time Monty felt genuinely proud of herself.

“If you hadn’t caught the Snitch, Roxanne would have caught it,” said Monty. “We would have won either way. It was your Chasers’ faults, not yours.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Sade sighed. Her frown molded into more of a halfhearted grimace, and she shook her head. “I’m just worried that if I don’t perform well in the next few games, my parents will convince me to quit. They want me to focus on being a Healer.”

“I didn’t know you want to be a Healer,” said Monty. 

They reached a stone bench in the corridor and each took a seat on either end.

“I don’t,” Sade said. “My whole family are Healers. Even my aunt — she’s a Squib — is a muggle doctor. She… like cuts people open and fixes them, I think. But they all do it, as far back as the family tree goes.”

Monty hummed in thought. “Well, what is it you want to do?”

Sade paused and bit the nail of her thumb as she mulled the question over. Perhaps it sounded odd or even cruel, but it was almost pleasant to see Sade outside of her normal peppy disposition. It wasn’t that Monty wanted to see her upset or in any pain, but it was not very often that Sade let her guard down. She hadn’t considered it that deeply, but to a certain degree, Sade’s positivity must have been a defense mechanism. Monty just felt honored that Sade trusted her well enough to let her in.

There had to have been a lot of pressure to be Sade, always having to be perfect and amiable. Yet, despite being wildly accomplished, she was practically only ever revered for her physical beauty. It was entirely possible that not many people ever actually asked what she wanted, or what she felt.

“Is it bad that I don’t know what I want to do?” Sade asked. Disappointment painted her features.

“I don’t think so.” Monty shook her head. “I have no clue what I want to do either.”

“It’s like, who am I to fight hundreds of years of family tradition?”

“Merlin, do I know the feeling,” agreed Monty.

Distantly down the hall, Monty could see her brother Joel heading her direction with a group of his friends. Monty rarely ever saw Joel anymore, as she actively avoided looking in the direction of the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall and none of their classes were ever located in the same vicinity.

Joel was still quite a bit shorter than her, which she supposed was fairly normal for a thirteen-year-old. In fact, he was roughly the same height as Albus, and he was probably bound to grow as monstrously tall as Finch. His hair had grown out from short and spiked to a more flowing middle part, and its bright blond had begun to fade into more of a mushroom brown, just like Finch’s had around the same age. For all intents and purposes, Joel looked like the smaller carbon copy of Finch, resembling more of the Baird side than the Montgomerys. But what they both lacked in the look, they made up in the classic Montgomery pompousness, of which Monty was the opposite.

She hadn’t imagined that Joel would be strutting about with a small group of Hufflepuffs, as he tended to remain loyal to his aerie of Ravenclaws, but the pretty little redhead clinging to his arm seemed to say enough. Monty pitied her, just ever so slightly, knowing that the Hufflepuff girl would eventually have to be shucked for the traditional Montgomery duty of marrying a pureblood outside the country. (She also pitied the witches of Brussels for currently being subjected to the terror that was Finch Baird, but that was neither here nor there.)

As Joel passed by, he spared her no cursory glance. 

* * *

At last, the night had come for their Hanukkah Feast-A-Palooza! (Lysander threatened to cancel the whole thing if she called it that one more time, but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.) 

Monty had skipped lunch to focus on getting the design of the Room of Requirement just right, exiting and reentering repeatedly until it was exactly perfect. Of course, Lysander remained on standby with their careful critiques, because if Monty could count on them for absolutely nothing else, at least she could be sure that Lysander Scamander would be incredibly blunt. 

It had been quite some time since Monty had last planned any sort of party, and even longer since she’d planned one so intimate. As such, she ensured that the space would be small, cozy, and roughly the size of a comfortable parlor room — in many ways, the direct antithesis of Montgomery Hall. She had obsessively sketched her plans in her notebook during class and meal time, and she was very proud to say that everything was going swimmingly.

So while Sade and Lysander gathered the rest of the crowd into the Room of Requirement, Monty had been tasked (well, rather tasked herself) with intercepting Natalia just before dinner in the Great Hall. It proved to be a slightly more difficult task than she had previously considered, as the throngs of students flocking to dinner made plucking out any one particular person exceedingly difficult.

As the mass departed, Monty figured she might have missed Nat all together, before finding her Ravenclaw friend lagging far behind the rest of the students and doodling absently in one of her smaller sketchbooks. Natalia appeared dressed up — opting for a grey sweater half-tucked into blue plaid pleated pants instead of her usual jeans and sweater combo — and Monty could only assume that she’d been tipped off, even a little bit, by Sade. 

Natalia glanced up from her sketchbook, and having her eye caught by Monty, she smiled and put her drawing tools in her bag. “I see Sade got to you, too.”

Monty peered down at her own outfit — a short, pearly-white dress — and realized that perhaps she had not taken into account the suspicion of a dress code… or the weather. Instead, she shrugged. “Hufflepuff’s love an occasion, I guess.”

The Ravenclaw rolled her eyes and smirked. “Let me guess, we aren’t eating dinner in the Great Hall.”

Monty only put her finger up to her lips to indicate her silence. _Damn, Ravenclaws always ruin the surprise._ It must have been from always having to solve a ridiculous riddle to get into your own room. Imagine if all the other houses had to prove their authenticity just to go to bed, like if every time Monty wanted to take a nap, she had to fight a basilisk with her bare hands. _Stupid._

For the entire journey towards the Room of Requirement, Natalia skeptically side-eyed Monty, of which the brown eyed girl pretended to not notice. There probably wasn’t much point in keeping up the pretense, as the surprise seemed to be well and spoiled, but Montgomery Baird was nothing if not unnecessarily obstinate. 

They stopped just outside the entrance, and Natalia shot Monty one more dubious glance. Monty tutted at her, smiling all the while.

“Will you just let it be a surprise?” Monty laughed. Natalia rolled her eyes again, but ultimately accepted her fate.

Through the doorway, the Room of Requirement was pitch black, and then with the wave of Monty’s wand, floating silver stars lit up the entire room. The back wall was lined with tables stacked with all of the food Sade and Lysander had planned together — latkes, fried doughnuts, brisket, the works. In the center of the room, blue velvet couches framed a large, circular wooden dining table, and on those couches sat their attendees.

“Happy Hanukkah!” the group shouted in unison, before devolving into chatter and laughter. It was a smaller group than Monty had initially imagined — Lysander, Sade, the other fifth year prefects (which shockingly included Lorcan), two of Natalia’s Ravenclaw friends (Emma Frankel and Aileen Myung), Archie, and… both James and Nadim. _Stellar._

Monty shook away all thoughts of James and Nadim — _Together. In one room._ — and returned her focus to Natalia.

Natalia’s face was a crossbreed of confusion and elation. She huffed out a half-laugh, and then turned to Monty. “What’s all this?”

Sade popped up off the couch, practically hopping with excitement, and skipped up to Natalia. “You told us all about how much you missed Hanukkah, and we thought ‘Well, that just won’t do,’ so we rounded up our best holiday expert—” Lysander waved. “—and thought we’d put together one big Hanukkah feast.”

“I know it’s not the same as celebrating with your family,” added Monty. “But we wanted to show you how much we love and support you.”

Natalia spun around to take in the scenery. Enchanted blue and silver glitter poured endlessly from the adjacent walls, refracting off of the glowing faux starlight and disappearing just before it would have hit the ground. The room held a pleasant warmness, both from special design and from the buzzing of bodies.

Dreidels sat in the center of the dining table, snatched up by Calvin and the pair of Ravenclaw girls, who listened intently as Lorcan explained the rules of the game. Mariana and Nadim had meandered over to the banquet tables, locked in conversation, and Monty could have sworn that this was the first time she’d ever seen Mariana with such a sunny disposition. 

Meanwhile, Natalia’s eyes welled up with tears, and she covered her mouth to choke back a gleeful sob. “You even got the gelt!” Nat cried.

“You actually have James to thank for that one,” Lysander said.

Monty’s eyes darted over to where James was waving his hand like the Queen. “I swear they’re only friends with me for my map and cloak.”

Natalia laughed, a few tears spilling from her eyes. “Thank you, all of you, really.”

Lysander took her by the arm, intertwining their elbows together, and led the pair of them over to the back wall. Sitting on a long table to the side of the food was a set of eight menorot, with each one holding one more candle than the previous. Lysander lit an extra candle with their wand and held it out to Natalia.

“Since we’re only doing one night,” they said. “We might as well cram the other seven in, too. Would you like to do the honor?”

Natalia took the candle with a radiant grin. “I’d love to.”

While Natalia began to light each candle, the pair began to say their blessings, “Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tsivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.”

Monty stood back and watched as the others gathered around — Lorcan joining in the blessings, and the rest simply listening on — and the warmth of the scenery seeped in through her skin. Her whole body felt to be glowing, feeling for the first time that week to be truly safe.

It seemed that even if things did not change in the outside world — even if she could not go home again — that maybe she had found a new home and a new family. And perhaps, if she really focused on it hard enough, maybe she would persuade the moment to last forever. Perhaps she’d never have to leave with just the memory.

In her peripheral vision, Monty caught a blur of darker movement against the twinkling lights of her surroundings. James, too, had stepped back to bask in the purity of the present.

“Thank you,” Monty said to him, possibly against her better judgment. “For helping with the candy, that is.”

James turned his head towards her, his crown of curls bouncing against his tan forehead as he did so. The earth and gold in his eyes drank in the warmth of the space around him, and he looked damn near ethereal. He smiled, soft and tender. “You would have done the same for me.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Even if she had something to say back to him, nothing would have been coaxed out from behind her lips, so she chose to fix her gaze onto the rest of the party again.

Nadim turned around from among the crowd and sent her one of his trademark dazzling smiles, beckoning her forward towards him. Monty could have sworn James’ own smile faltered for a brief second, but if it had, it was quickly reconstructed. 

_I’m so screwed._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy December, all! 
> 
> I feel that I should add that I am not Jewish myself, and while I did do a lot of research into the celebrations of Hanukkah and drew from personal experiences of celebrations that my Jewish friends have invited me to in the past, I am aware of the possibility that I may not have accurately portrayed Hanukkah. It is not my intention to misrepresent any cultural group, but if I do write something now, before, or in the future that does not do a certain culture or religion justice, I would appreciate you calling me out on it. I want to create a piece that everyone can feel safe and represented by.
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'd love to hear what you all thought and feel with some comments and kudos. Thank you for reading, and I'll catch you with the next chapter!


	13. The Slug Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes James until almost the last week of term to realize that he should have been paying better attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all, welcome back to another chapter! I hope you enjoy!

Quidditch practice… hadn’t gone well. Let’s just put it that way.

James watched from the bleachers as Archie easily bobbed and weaved through the air, hitting Bludger after Bludger with relative ease. Roxanne, as usual, darted quickly after the Snitch, which never seemed to linger too far ahead of her, though he was sure that she was purposefully letting it stay just out of reach for a challenge. 

Rose had complained all morning that it was too cold out to practice, and maybe to a certain degree she was right. It was well below freezing, and if you stopped moving for a second, you’d be at high risk of seizing up to the cold. Still, James had to see what he was working with.

And it was bad.

Isabella Buckridge had no trouble blocking each attempt at a goal from Wiley Perlman and Calista O’Connor, which could have been a glowing review of Isabella’s Keeper skills, if it weren’t a steadfast condemnation of Wiley and Calista’s Chaser skills. 

In hindsight, James wished he hadn’t gone with a second year for a starting position. Wiley’s fast movements did not make up for his lack of coordination yet, unlike James had previously hoped. Furthermore, the second year Chaser did not take direction well, often forgetting formations and refusing to deviate from his self-set course.

Calista had stopped showing up to her one-on-one lessons with Rose, claiming that her N.E.W.T. level courses required far more dedication and attention than extra Quidditch practice would allow. On that note, any semblance at athletic talent she may have possessed beforehand had withered away and died. She also appeared physically incapable of passing the Quaffle whenever Rose called out for it, leading James to the conclusion that Rose had been less-than-friendly about Calista quitting outside lessons.

The sun had been covered by the clouds, threatening either rain or snow, and James frankly did not want to find out which would come first. Just like nearly every practice before this, James called an early quits, and the team filed off the pitch to the lockers with a look of unparalleled defeat.  _ Guess they’ll have to get used to the feeling.  _

Winning against Slytherin was a stroke of luck, but they couldn’t bank on the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams being equally as bad. In fact, they had to count on the polar opposite: that Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were going to be exceedingly talented teams.

It was funny, at least a little bit, to think that James had spent the previous two years arguing (with a very certain former Chaser) that Beaters were more important than Chasers. That if the Beaters were bad, a whole team would collapse, but if the Chasers were bad, a team can survive. He now saw where his argument was… flawed. And that was the most he’d say on that.

Roxanne and Rose seemed to pity him enough to meet him on the bleachers instead of following the rest of the team to shower up. His cousins sat on either side of him, staring out onto the newly empty pitch. In his peripheral, James could see as the cousins regarded him carefully, unsure of what to say.

Then, Rose shrugged. “I’m just gonna say it. We suck.”

“I thought we agreed to be delicate,” Roxanne chastised. But Rose was right, they sucked. They were awful, miserable, absolutely hopeless. 

“I am being delicate,” Rose retorted. “Notice how I didn’t say, ‘We suck, and it’s your fault, James, for abandoning us immediately after our first game.’”

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Yup, so glad you didn’t say that.”

Rose stuck her tongue out at her older cousin from across James, and the girls fell into a bickering match. It was not uncommon for either of them to bicker — not only with one another, but with practically anyone they came across. Come to think of it, most of James’ cousins had an adept talent at petty banter, to the point where if the names and the hair colors didn’t tip most people off, the incessant quips most definitely would. James supposed he wasn’t too far removed from the trait himself, if he were being entirely frank.

The wind began to pick up, and just by the distinct smell alone, James could tell it wasn’t long before the snow followed. Still, he was perfectly content to sit there and freeze over as he wallowed in self-pity. All those years he’d dreamed of a wildly successful Quidditch career were laid to waste, and here he was being coddled by his cousins. (Well, one of his cousins. The other was being a bit harsh.)

“We’re fucked,” muttered James. Rose and Roxanne ceased their spat and stared at him, half worried and half amused. “All I wanted was to have a good first season as Captain.”

“There’s still time,” Roxanne said and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her hand was cold, near frozen, and it reminded James that there wasn’t a whole lot of use being out there for much longer.

Rose scoffed and her eyes rolled over. She had been most unpleasant since her and her boyfriend — What’s-His-Name — had very publicly (and very loudly) ended their relationship in the very center of the Middle Courtyard, apparently drawing quite the crowd. James’ (regrettably) had not been in attendance to what was described as ‘the complete obliteration of a poor young man who had no clue what hit him.’ (James later learned that what ‘hit him’ was Rose’s copy of  _ One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _ ).

He had been all rather uninvolved with that relationship — having been on the outs with Rose for most of it, but from what he heard, it was fairly entertaining. But, there didn’t seem to be much reason to move forward with the relationship once it was revealed that the boy had chosen to sneak around behind Rose’s back with Veronica Derringer. It went without saying that the third year Gryffindors were currently splintered into factions.

And frankly, it was reflecting in Rose’s less-than-perfect performance on the pitch. She was spacey, unfocused, and even if Calista had the good sense to pass the Quaffle Rose’s way, there was no guarantee she’d even catch it.

“I think it’s time to give up,” said Rose, her nose hanging high in the air. He knew it was her way of trying to seem older than she was, more mature, and less like a baby cousin, but right now it was just irritating.

James rose to his feet, his knees cracking and joints groaning in the cold, and left his cousins behind on the bleachers. As he walked back to the lockers, the first snowflake landed on the lense of his glasses, annoyingly obscuring his view. It reminded him that he was actually rather cold, and desperately craving a hot shower.

The near scalding streams of water defrosted his whole body, no doubt turning his skin a vicious shade of red, and reminding him of his full range of motion. James had always taken burning hot showers, despite Lily’s constant nagging that it’d wrinkle him to bits before he reached thirty. Still, he could never fight the urge to bask in the fiery flurry, early onset aging be damned.

The very moment he passed through the threshold of the common room, James collapsed into a heap on the couch. The fire glinted off of his glasses so severely that it obstructed any view of his eyes, yet his incessant moaning and howling seemed to dictate his emotional state all rather well.

“Glad to see you’re well,” Lysander said, a wry smile sitting on their lips. They did not look up at James — there wasn’t much need to — and continued to lazily scan the pages of  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5.  _

“My life is a disaster,” groaned James. “And you have the audacity to treat me with sarcasm?”

Lysander only snorted in return. James rolled over on the couch, pressing his face into the cushions, and began to scream into it, then turned over again to stare at the ceiling. 

Roxanne entered the common room through the portrait not a moment later, her short curls still wet from the locker room showers. She laughed upon seeing James’ distressed state, and made her way to sit on the edge of the couch where James laid. This evidently caught the attention of Greer Wood, who came bouncing over and sat criss-cross on the floor below them.

“As you can tell,” Roxanne said. James didn’t even need to look at her to sense her shit-eating grin. “His first practice back was a triumph.”

Lysander hummed, their eyes darting up for a moment to survey the population of the common room — nothing — before returning to their textbook.

James moaned again, louder. (Definitely not to try and catch the attention of a particular brunette that sat alone at her usual desk facing the corner wall. That’d be stupid, and James wasn’t stupid.)

Lysander sighed and closed their book. “You know some people are actually trying to study, right?”

James propped himself up on the couch, clutching a gold embroidered throw pillow to his chest. The common room buzzed around him with conversation, and it seemed to James that just about everyone had abandoned all hopes of studying for next week’s final exams.

He was a firm believer in ‘you know what you know,’ and he never bothered much with studying. Perhaps it was frustrating to Lysander (it definitely enraged Lucy), but James usually received high marks with very little effort. Sure, he put in some extra devotion to the subjects he loved, but that was purely for the pleasure of academic pursuit. He simply accepted that his sheer talent in everything he touched was a divine gift, as was his impressive ability to remain wholly humble in the face of his own greatness.

“Have you even touched your notes?” Greer asked James. “I doubt the O.W.L.s are going to be so easy for you.”

James guffawed, though for a brief moment he worried his ego may have been excessive. “I can’t imagine any reason they won’t. Everything else has been easy so far.”

“Mhm,” replied Greer. She raised her thick eyebrows and passed along a smirk to Roxanne, who in turn playfully rolled her eyes. “That’s why you’ve dropped every elective you even remotely struggle with.”

_Ouch._ Though he supposed she wasn’t entirely wrong. James simply didn’t see any reason to stick through a course he knew he was going to be rubbish at. He had better things to occupy his time with, such as Quidditch… and that was pretty much reason enough for him.  
“I’d love to see Aunt Ginny’s face if you failed an exam,” Roxanne mused, but James would have preferred to not imagine his mum’s reaction were he to bomb his exams. “She’d hex you right into next term.”

James shuddered at the thought.

Again, Lysander’s eyes surveyed the room, keenly watching for something to happen. And again, whatever they were searching for did not come (or go, James wasn’t sure which). Their winter blue eyes muddled with disappointment, and they began to doodle conical shaped scribbles on the edges of their textbook.  _ So much for resale value. _

Greer giggled to herself and lifted up onto her knees to look at Lysander’s idle sketches. “Deviated from his initials now, have we?”

Lysander softly shoved her back into her seated position. “Sod off, Wood.”

“Oh, we know you’d like to,” Roxanne quipped, and the two girls fell into a pit of laughter. 

Lysander huffed. “Was that meant to be clever?”

Something turned over in James’ gut, the familiar and unfriendly feeling of anxiety. Something akin to terror, he suspected. Ignoring Roxanne and Greer’s silly taunts about Lysander’s schoolyard crush, James began to ruminate on the possibility that maybe O.W.L. level exams would be harder than he had previously thought.

He’d spent all term blowing off studying, missing classes, and wallowing in his own self-interest that it hadn’t even passed through his mind that he may be far behind acceptable in any which course. He could be certain that he would do well in Potions and Transfiguration, but the rest were up to fate.

And Roxanne was right, his mum would hex and jinx him clean out of his socks if he were to fail his classes. She’d force him to give up his position as Quidditch Captain (again, though she probably didn’t know that it happened in the first place), but even worse is she’d make him sit down for a lecture with his dad. 

Several hours at the dining room table listening to his father drone on about how he, too, did poorly on his exams sounded like James’ own personal hell. Other kids feared monsters in their closets or things that go bump in the night, but James feared an endless reminder that his father was ‘just like him’ when he was James’ age, only he was the Chosen One, and had part of Voldemort’s soul inside him, and every year at Hogwarts someone tried to murder him, and he had no parents. But no pressure. 

James had accepted by this point that he was going to be the first unremarkable Potter in generations. His father went without saying. His grandfather sacrificed his life — wandless — to save his family and the entire world. His great-grandfather… invented Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion, which was still pretty cool in his own personal opinion. James was not really much of anything, if he were being honest with himself. There was no big bad to vanquish. Every potion to be invented had been invented. James was nothing spectacular, and he saw no point in lying to himself about it much longer.

But what little achievements James had in life, he intended to keep, and that began with passing his examinations.

The girls and Lysander were all still throwing little jabs and banter at one another, delighting in each other’s company, and ultimately unaware of James’ inner turmoil. If it weren’t for his newly formed crushing anxiety that he was going to be a next-level failure, he would have enjoyed the sight of his close friends gathered around a fire, laughing and glowing in the flickering light. Perhaps he would have had the sense to relish in the feeling of warmth and camaraderie, knowing that although graduation seemed forever away, time was moving at a relentless pace, and that he’d regret not joining in on every comforting moment he could have.

Instead, James’ rushed to snatch up  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5  _ off of the floor besides Lysander and began to pour over every word.

* * *

The library crowds had noticeably dwindled, or at least James would have noticed if he spent much time in the library to begin with. While all of the other students appeared to have given up on last minute cramming, James had only just begun. 

Lysander had been gracious enough to lend James all of their notes — which were thorough, but marred with little scribbles of Archie’s name surrounded by a series of hearts — and by his third night of comprehensive studying, James confirmed that he was, in fact, so screwed. He couldn’t tell the difference between Jupiter’s moon (or name them all, for that matter), and he’d completely forgotten the series of events that contributed to the Goblin Rebellion of 1612… and the Giant wars… and just about everything they were meant to have learned in History of Magic. But James would maintain that it wasn’t his fault that Professor Binns could lecture someone straight into an early grave, and imagined that he’d even likely lectured himself to death. (“What a load of rubbish,” James had said once, around first or second year. “What if someone else were to want the job? You can’t fire a bloody ghost!”)

Every passing hour seemed to confirm the inevitable, he was doomed to his mother’s wrath and his father’s pity.

He was just about to call it quits when a mane of red curly hair slammed a stack of old books onto the desk in front of him, causing an echo to follow.

“You know,” started Rose. “It’s never a good sign when you’re in here.”

Rose began to put her hair up into a high ponytail, a thick, voluminous congregation of curls, and it reminded James of his jealousy towards many of his cousins’ hair colours. He’d thought black hair was all rather boring, stretching to point out that if the sunlight hit it in a very particular way, there would be hints of red sheen. One could only imagine his rage when Lily was born with flaming red hair, and he and Albus were stuck with the boring shades. 

Now all grown up, James was pleased with his hair colour, claiming it made him look more mysterious. 

“How far behind are you?” Rose asked him. Her hair was tied up as tight as possible, but James could see the elastic threatening to snap at a moment’s notice.

He glanced down at his notes, then looked up at her with his cocky grin. “It’s fifth year O.W.L. stuff. You wouldn’t begin to understand.” Which he knew probably wasn’t true. Rose could pass her O.W.L.s tomorrow if she’d only studied for them tonight. James was not so fortunate.

Rose shot him a sharp glare. She was clearly in no better mood now than she had been for the past few weeks. 

Then something seemed to catch her eye from behind his shoulder, something that truly soured her expression. Her face scrunched together in the center of her visage, and she scoffed at whatever it was just past James’ back.

James turned and watched as Monty hunched over Albus and Scorpius’ class notes. The brunette smiled at the Slytherin boys and then clapped Albus on his thin, bony shoulder. Yet, for some unknown reason, the sight did not draw out any feelings of anger within James, but rather an unplaceable warm sensation. No longer a trace of green jealousy or red rage, but visions of pink and gold flitting around in the pit of his stomach.

And Albus was laughing, holding his parchment up with beaming pride, and James almost felt as if he were a part of it. He wanted to be a part of it.

“It’s disgusting,” Rose grumbled.

James shifted forward in his seat to look at her again. It was sort of ironic, he thought, that someone with such a delicate name like Rose would be so cold and solid, like wet cobblestone pavement. 

“They’re friends,” he said, flippant and dismissive. He hadn’t been in the mood much to crack unsavory jokes at Monty’s expense recently. 

There was something about their — his and Monty’s, that is — rocky relationship that kept throwing him off the laid path. At times, he felt like a pioneer, trying to map out where he's been and where he’s going every step of the way, but always getting lost. And the path was getting wilder, longer, and he didn’t know which way was up and which was down. Was he hot or cold? He couldn’t say.

Rose maintained her intense gaze in the trio's direction. “You can’t trust her.”

“And why not?”

Rose scoffed again, neither an unusual action for her nor an enjoyable one. “You can’t trust someone that’s friends with a Malfoy.”

Now normally James would have agreed, earnestly. He never liked Malfoy, found him to be shifty and all around up to no good. Also true, James often questioned Monty’s judgement of character, with her Conor Knearnaughts and Nadim Bahris. Still, he had to sustain the thought that Albus could not be evil and could not associate himself with evil.

He’d grown up with the idea that Slytherin was bad and Gryffindor was good — even though his parents tried to distance the family from that Manichean perspective. After all, Professor Slughorn was a good man, a flawed man perhaps, but a kind person nonetheless. In that vein, Peter Pettigrew was a cowardly Gryffindor who was responsible for the deaths of innocent people, good people. 

Then again, would it really be so unimaginable if Albus was persuaded into the Dark Arts by his Slytherin peers? Certainly the power of peer pressure could tempt anyone to step outside their own personal morality. 

_ No, Al could never.  _ That was resolute.

“My brother is friends with Malfoy,” said James, and his voice was that of solid concrete. There was no waver, no uncertainty. “I trust Albus with my life, and you should too.”

Rose reeled back in her seat, a single curl falling out of its place and onto her cheek. She curled her upper lip as she recoiled, and her eyebrows met in the center of her freckled forehead. “Merlin, everyone’s so touchy today.” She gathered her textbooks back into a pile, muttering incomprehensible nonsense as she slammed book on top of book.

James sighed and massaged his temple with the pad of his thumb. “Rose, you don’t have to leave.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she snapped back. Rose froze in place for a moment and looked at him face on, then took a deep breath. Her bottom lip began to wobble as she blinked back tears, and she began to tap her fingers on her thighs.

Rose hated to cry in front of people, and she probably hated crying in general. Outside of their very young childhood, James had only ever seen actual tears escape Rose’s eyes a handful of times. Instead, she seemed to prefer yelling, the occasional throwing of things, and now as her spellwork began to shape up exponentially, no one was ever quite safe from a hex, jinx, or curse.

Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron were great parents — some of the best you could find out there — but Rose had all of the pressure in the world resting on her shoulders. She was always in family photos on the front pages of  _ The Prophet _ , always in the public eye just like the rest of them. Yet, Rose took it upon herself to be as practically perfect as she possibly could manage, never showing cracks in her marble.

While James, Albus, and Lily often ignored their own fame, pretending that they were no different than every other child, Rose couldn’t quite get past her responsibility to the public, and it seemed to be doing more damage than he previously considered.

She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Rosie?” He hadn’t called her that for years. She’d decided she grew out of it just before she arrived at Hogwarts, and she got quite cross if anyone called her that.

This time, however, Rose seemed to lean into the comforting nickname, and the tears broke through and began to waterfall down her face. “Why doesn’t he like me?”

To be candid, James had no idea if she was referring to her familial relationship with Albus or her romantic relationship with What’s-His-Name. (James really needed to get a better handle on his cousins’ relationships).

“Anyone who doesn’t like you is a bloody fool,” James said, and offered her a soft smile.

She wiped at her eyes, furiously, and her eyes charted a course around their section of the library to confirm that no one could see her cry. “Everything is getting so hard,” Rose said, and despite her best efforts to slow them, the tears continued to flow with ease.

James glanced back around his shoulder over to where Albus was gesticulating wildly with his wand in his hand. The glow in Al’s green eyes was familiar, the kind of look that came only with his silly retellings of one of their dad’s stories, the types of tales that James suspected were exaggerated or stretched over time, but they always brought Albus so much joy. 

Monty was covering her mouth with her hand, a trait she must have developed sometime before James had met her. He remembered that she once told him about how she was made fun of in her muggle school in America for having braces (called her ‘train tracks,’ he recalled), so sometimes when she laughed, she hid behind her hand. It was a shame, he often thought, because her laugh was lovely.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” James said as he faced Rose again. “Everything is getting hard.”

* * *

James was not worried as he strolled into his Potions exam, and in fact, his spirits were quite high. The History of Magic exam earlier that morning had been surprisingly easy to follow, although James wasn’t so certain about his essay portion. (For the life of him, he couldn’t make out the difference between Daedalus the Daring and Dagfinnr the Doughty). So perhaps he was the slightest bit drunk on his own self-confidence coming out of the morning’s examination, but James S. Potter was not concerned in the slightest with Potions.

He took his sweet time meandering down the corridors on his way to the classroom, stopping to wink at a group of fourth year Ravenclaw girls, who in turn hooted and giggled at his attention. It was cruel — he knew that — to lead on his fanbase in such a way, but his ego was snowballing down a hill.

If James were to be honest with himself, as he never actually was, he needed the external validation before entering the dungeons. Not because of the course material or an exam, but to prevent his blood from overboiling (like a bad potion, might he add) at the sight of Nadim Bahri managing to trick Monty into liking him.

Normally, James was early enough to Potions that he was one of the first students in their seat, but his dawdling and mindless flirtations with the Ravenclaw flock made him one of the last in the classroom. 

Monty was already seated, her hair was straight again and pulled up into a high ponytail, and it swung back and forth as she laughed at something Nadim said next to her. Nadim sat up extremely straight with no curvature in his posture in the least bit, and his stupidly coiffed hair was just as rigid. The pair was distanced a few feet, standard exam procedure, but Monty still leaned forward in an attempt to bridge the distance between them.

He hadn’t seen her half as much as he had before their little exchange in the Astronomy Tower, and only spoke to her again for a brief moment at Natalia’s Hanukkah celebration. James was unsure if she was avoiding him, or if somehow, subconsciously he was avoiding her. 

He’d left the Astronomy Tower that night with a distinct ill feeling, one that he’d seldom felt before, but when he had it always came after particularly bitter and hot-headed arguments with Miss Montgomery Baird. As a matter of fact, there were only two other distinct occasions where he could recall having the similar sickness.

The first was about halfway through their second year, when one of Monty’s potions had exploded on her, and James laughed. Not with her, but at her, he laughed. It was a cruel type of laughter that came hand in loving hand with pre-teenageness, and it sparked the mocking laughter of the rest of the class. It wasn’t the first time that James had made Monty the butt of the joke, and it most certainly wasn’t the last, but it had been the first time he could remember seeing her cry. Shame spread through him like veins of mold, starting in his stomach and fanning out throughout his entire body.

The second time was last term, after Gryffindor lost the Cup to Ravenclaw. He was angry with her about knocking Roxanne off her broom, blamed her for the loss, but he was the one who hit the Bludger wrong. It was that Bludger that nearly slammed into Monty’s side, and if it had, the damage would have been far worse than the injuries Roxanne sustained. It would have been the second major Quidditch loss where the fault could have landed squarely on his shoulders, and he didn’t want to take the responsibility.

James watched as Monty tried to defend herself — watched as Rose screamed in her face — and he did nothing. Then, Monty faced him, called him cruel, callous, and disgusting, and he pretended that he hadn’t perpetuated it, so much so that he’d actually managed to forget that he had. He went to bed that night nauseous and woke up the next morning feeling as if he’d downed Draught of Living Death.

This time around, however, the illness came from a new source, and a source he was unable to place. Something about the close proximity and her jumping away from him — the terror written into her face — made him feel incredibly vile. James was unsure what he’d done, but whatever he did, he never, ever wanted to cause a reaction in her like that again. 

So maybe to a degree, he was avoiding her, afraid that he could cause her panic again.

Still, it didn’t mean that he enjoyed watching her flirt fest with Nadim Bahri, that ridiculous prat. Who did he think he was, smiling at her like that? Causing her to blush like that? He probably thought he was so slick, too, getting away with it.

It was no secret that Nadim was only courting Monty because she was a Montgomery. It would be too obvious if he were to go after Lucy or Roxanne, with their glaring Weasley name, or — and even Nadim was not so detestable a person to do so — Lily or Rose. Monty was a perfect medium; she had just enough pureblood family history, but without the self-importance to take it into account. 

He supposed that’s what made James abhor Nadim so much. Just that. No other reason, truly.

Yet, as the Potions exam went on, James found himself thinking less of powdered moonstone and more about the cheeky glances and secretly shared smiles between the Slytherin boy and the Gryffindor girl. 

Even still, James finished his brew of Draught of Peace in record time and splendidly, too. He’d practiced it many times before, and the silver mists rising from his cauldron had long since been a familiar spectacle for him. He’d even taken to selling small bottles of it to students that had trouble calming themselves for exams or quieting their minds enough to fall asleep, though that was likely highly discouraged among Hogwarts’ regulations.

A few minutes after Slughorn had approved James’ potion (“Spectacular work, m’boy!” Slughorn said), the same steely haze rose from Monty’s cauldron, and for a moment, James was quite proud of her. In years previous, James had tutored her in Potions — she really could never manage to get the measurements right — and in turn, she’d work with him on Charms, sharing with him extra spells that she found. For a few years, they were a dynamic duo, picking up the other’s slack and vice versa.

When Slughorn congratulated her on a potion well made, however, Monty Baird did not turn to James’ direction to distribute her glee, but instead looked to Nadim, who silently cheered for her over his own unfinished draught. A new ill feeling stirred within James’ core as he watched on — starting as a slow sizzle, but quickly burning hotter and hotter, until it became all consuming, and then—

_ BLAM!  _ Nadim’s potion exploded up onto the ceiling and all over his robes, and James actually found him to be relatively lucky that he had been a few ingredients behind, or else the robes likely would’ve immolated. Clearly not appreciating his relative fortune in the present circumstances, Nadim jumped out of his seat and let out a loud yelp.

Gregory Goyle’s Draught of Peace must have caught onto the memo, as green sparklers set off and the potion boiled over and onto the floor. His best efforts be damned, a small chuckle escaped James’ lips, and soon the whole classroom was engaged in either laughter or panic (mostly depending on their house). Slughorn remained largely unfazed by the sudden chaos, calming the classroom and pulling them back into focus, but he couldn’t stop Monty from shooting him a fierce glare. Based on the slight clenching of his heart, James wasn’t so sure he’d want her to stop.

Then as soon as it had all begun, the examination period had ended, and the students rushed to pack up their things and hurry out to lunch. James was just as eager to stuff his face with any variety of food, as he had been too anxious to eat much more than buttered toast for breakfast before exams.

Nadim sped out of the classroom quick as can be, undoubtedly to change his robes while he still had the chance, and Monty fell not far behind. James was ready to catch the Gryffindor brunette before she passed through the door, but was trapped in by the sound of his own name.

“James, my dear boy,” Slughorn called out, stopping James effectively in his tracks mere centimeters away from Monty. He turned towards the Potions Master, who motioned James forward. “Come, come, we’ve business to discuss.”

Obviously, he knew that James was behind Nadim’s little accident. He didn’t mean to do it, of course, and there was no definitive proof that James had done anything. He didn’t cast any spells after all, but James had a suspicion that it was a product of juvenile magic — the kind that stopped for most people once they began their studies, the kind that only happened when intense emotions were involved. And now, James had likely lost the favour of Professor Slughorn because of it.

James cautiously followed Slughorn back to the professor’s desk, shaking in a slight manner at the thought of admonishment from one of his favourite professors (or worse, a Howler from Mum in tomorrow’s post).

Slughorn lowered himself into his desk chair — slowly and gingerly on account of his age — and used his wand to light the fireplace adjacent to him. “Oh, do sit, James, sit. It makes me nervous when people just stand about.” James nodded and sat in the elevated seat in front of the desk. “I’m sure you know perfectly well why you’re called in.”

James flinched. “I didn’t mean to, Professor. Honest.”

Slughorn chuckled (which turned into a mild cough, but that was to be expected). “Now, now, I think I’m better off not knowing what you meant, or didn’t mean, to do. 

“No, no, I’m talking about your invitation to Slug Club this Friday evening. I haven’t heard a response from you yet.”

Right, Slug Club, where James would be just another Potter to add to a collection of Slughorn’s trophy students. He had received the invitation about two weeks prior and thought it best to just ignore it. It was generational, now. His mum and dad had been in it, as was his grandmother, and James was not keen on the idea of being invited to a prestigious club on namesake alone. Frankly, he wasn’t keen on the idea of prestigious clubs to begin with.

“Ah, thanks Professor,” said James. “But I’m so busy with class and Quidditch—”

“Oh, come now, James,” Slughorn swiftly cut in before James could fully turn down the invitation. “Friday evening, you’ll be long finished with exams for the term. I think you’ll be more than impressed with the caliber of company you’ll be keeping. The best and brightest of their years, I find.”

James remained awkwardly silent.

“Say, why don’t you think more on it, and I’ll see you Friday.” Slughorn rose to his feet, his joints creaking, and began to herd James out of the classroom. “Best be heading to lunch, now. Off you go, m’boy, off you go.”

With a soft push, James was out the door and in the hallway of the dungeons. Waiting for him just past the threshold was Roxanne, who was mindlessly playing catch with her practice Snitch. She corrected her posture once she saw him, her mouth morphing into the famous Weasley shit-eating grin that could be caught on any of the cousins at one time or another.

“In trouble for your little show?” Roxanne mused, her eyes flashed with mischief.

James put on his best innocent face. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

Roxanne hummed, and the pair began their ascent to the Great Hall. James’ stomach growled in anticipation.

“Well, what was that about?” asked Roxanne, letting the Snitch fly out of her grasp before snatching it up again. “Your chat with Sluggy, I mean.”

James shrugged. “Slug Club.”

Roxanne skidded to an abrupt halt. “You’re kidding. Lucy’s going to flip.”

“Why should she?” James maintained his steady pace, and Roxanne jogged a few steps to catch up. “I’m not going.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m not an accessory,” replied James.

She scoffed. “Lucy would kill to be one of Slughorn’s accessories. You should’ve seen her when Monty got her invitation, thought Luce was going to bite her head right off. I would have stepped in, too, if I wasn’t still so bloody pissed off at her.”

“Monty’s invited?” Though it was more of a musing than an actual question.

“Oh, of course now you’re interested in going.”

James was about to make up a half-hearted excuse for his interest in Monty’s being invited to Slug Club, but ahead of them, Warren Nott and Gregory Goyle were taunting a group of Hufflepuff first years, threatening them with ‘advanced fifth year spells’ — the kind James doubted they even knew to begin with. Immediately upon seeing James and Roxanne round the corner, however, the Slytherin boys took off down the hallway. 

“Nott and Goyle have been getting bolder,” Roxanne said to James, nodding at the Hufflepuff children to reassure them. James recognized one of the boys — Jasper, if he remembered correctly — as one of Lily and Hugo’s friends.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Roxanne eyed him, wary, but they had reached the entrance to the Great Hall. “If you say so.”

* * *

“How do I look?” James said, doing a spin around the center of the dorm room.

Lysander took a bite of their chocolate frog as they said, “Like you’re going to be late.”

James huffed and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d been at this for hours, and he wasn’t exactly sure what was compelling him to do so. He had no reason to care about how he looked for a Slug Club dinner. There was something off about his robes — he looked distinctly wizardly — and perhaps that was the problem. Some girls, some particular girls, preferred the latest muggle fashions. 

“Would jeans and a t-shirt be better?” James asked.

Archie peeked his head out of his bed curtains. “Absolutely not, mate.”

Lysander nodded in agreement.

James threw his head back in anguish and cried, “Will someone please help me? I don’t want to look stupid!”

“Since when do you have a problem with looking stupid?” came Lysander’s dry reply.

Wordlessly and with a flick of his wand, James sent his discarded pile of recently tried on clothes flying at Lysander’s face. It was hopeless, he was sure of it. Everything he owned was wrong for the occasion, and maybe if he hadn’t immediately thrown out the written invitation, he would have had some vague idea of appropriate attire.

He went back to rummage through his trunk, throwing out stray socks and old shirts he hadn’t worn for years (but Mum always insisted he bring), and finally he collapsed into a heap on the floor. “I’m doomed,” he whined. “I haven’t a thing to wear.”

Lysander snorted, still sifting their way through James’ clothes on their bed. “I’ll add you to the list of the most tragic characters of all time. It goes: Barnabas the Beheaded, Whittier the Wronged, and James the ‘Just Can’t Find a Shirt That Goes With My Eyes.’” They flung one of James’ dress shirts back at him. “Go with the black shirt, roll the sleeves up, red tie.”

“I wear a red tie every day.”

“Gold tie, then,” replied Lysander. James opened his mouth to respond, but Lysander beat him to it. “You asked for my opinion, and now you’ve got it. Please, shut up and put your stupid outfit on.”

From behind his bed curtains, Archie’s voice rang out wondering, “Do you think this is what the girls’ dorm is like?”

Then another voice sounded from behind a separate bed curtain. “I’ve been trying to nap for the past two hours!” Miles groaned. “No one cares about your clothes.”

James checked the time, and Lysander was correct — he was late. He rushed to throw on his outfit, silently lamenting about how it did look rather plain. He mussed his hair one more time, and took off out the dorm door, through the common room, and continued to run all the way to Slughorn’s office. By the time he reached the door, he was thoroughly winded and stopped to take in a few deep breaths, leveling his heartbeat, and then finally making his way inside.

Slughorn’s office was massive, to put it lightly, and covered top to bottoms with colourful silks, satins, and velvets. To the left and near a grand fireplace, a group of older wizards in even older robes stood about with large glasses full of a shimmering pink liquid. Jolie Waterford, the Head Girl, and another seventh year Ravenclaw (Dhonu Jnawali, if James remembered correctly) stood close to one another, in what looked to be a conversation of romantic origin. 

James looked down at his clothing choice — simple tan pleated pants with his regular black dress shoes, and the shirt and tie that Lysander had picked out for him — and he felt incredibly out of place, underdressed, and just generally stupid. He did not want to be there for much reason other than… well, he didn’t exactly know why he wanted to be there in the first place.

The room was already swarming with activity, and James realized that if he had paid just a tad more attention to the invitation, he would have known that it was not a simple dinner, but rather a busy networking Christmas party. And in that case, he certainly would not have attended. Still, James knew he was here for a reason — one reason — and he started his search.

He dodged and weaved through the crowd, narrowly avoiding being sucked into what was likely to be mind-numbingly dull conversations with higher ups in the Ministry — admiring him for how much he looks like his grandfather, or how he’s bound to be an outstanding Auror just like his father, or blah blah blah and whatever. In the distance, James saw a flash of familiar chocolate waves, but he only took one step in the direction before being stopped.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said. She had to look up through her small circular glasses to see his face now, one of the greater gifts of height. “I would have expected you to be avoiding an event like this.”

This struck James as odd. “Why is that, Professor?”

McGonagall made her way over to a pastry-lined table and plucked up a red and white striped biscuit. “Peppermint,” she said and took a small bite. “You’ll want to eat while you still can, Potter. Once Professor Slughorn finds you, you’ll be swarmed with attention — you’d think they would all be used to seeing a Potter these days.”

“Yeah,” muttered James. “I am trying to avoid that.”

“Then you certainly haven’t come to the right place,” she said, and she looked towards the back of the room. “You’ll be better off on the balcony, Potter.”

James shot her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Professor,” he said and easily slipped out onto the balcony.

It wasn’t as cold or dark as he thought it would have been — almost the same temperature as the office was, and just about as well lit. The moon was waning crescent, but providing a perfect amount of silver light to reflect on the Great Lake in the distance — serene.

A sudden shadow of movement caused James to jump and ready his wand, and then a bubble of laughter came from the figure.  _ Monty.  _ As she moved into the light, the silvery moonlight reflected off the hints of auburn in her hair, and the golden glow coming through the balcony’s glass doors illuminated her face. She wore a velvet dress — such a dark green that it was nearly black, strapless and fell just below her knees — and it rippled as she walked up to him. Her hair was half tied up with some sort of bun, and the wavy tendrils that framed her face moved with the breeze James hadn’t previously noticed was there. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said with a smirk. “It was too much in there; had to take a break.”

James found himself too stunned to immediately speak. 

Monty did not seem to notice, as she turned back to the balcony’s edge and overlooked Hogwarts’ grounds. “Apparently, we’re the top two in our year. Can you believe that?” The breeze blew her hair off her shoulders, sending the waves tumbling down her back. “And all of Ravenclaw wept.”

He mustered out a light chuckle. “The airheaded Gryffindors, huh?”

“I guess not,” she replied. Monty spun around on her heel and leaned with the back of her arms on the railing. “I am surprised, though. I’m awful at Herbology, and Potions has been harder this year without… well, you know.”

James’ heart fluttered ever so subtly, though he couldn’t imagine why. “Your idea of an awful grade is an E.” He playfully rolled his eyes as he moved closer to lean over the railing, resting his chin on his hands. “It drives the rest of them mad whenever you complain about your ‘poor grades.’”

“Not you, though?” Monty asked with a curious flip in her tone. Almost… flirtatious.

“No,” he chuckled out the word. “Because I have the same grades.”

Monty tilted her head back to look up at the sky, staring up into the great unknown. James glanced over at her, almost too afraid to look at her head on, as if she were the sun and it’d scorch his eyes to see her in her entirety. Her scarlet lips stretched into a smile, revealing perfect pearl teeth, and fireworks exploded in James’ brain.

_ Merlin, I am stupid.  _ He wondered how long this had been going on right beneath his nose, and if he were to thoroughly sort through the files in his brain, he imagined it’d been quite a long while. 

Even worse, why hadn’t Lysander told him? Surely, Lysander would have known by now, because Lysander always knows.  _ That sneaky little bastard. _

Monty pushed up off of the balcony railing and headed towards the door. “We should probably get back in there,” she said. “The peppermint cookies look really good, and I want to get some before they disappear.”

James watched as she departed — watched her hair brush against her exposed back — and allowed for the rambunctious bustling of the Slug Club crowd to swallow her image. He stood there as the balcony dropped rapidly into its winter temperatures and simply accepted that he was doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah, blah, blah, kudos, comment, blah, blah. Thank you for reading!


	14. The Girl Called "Pippa"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas holidays at Montgomery Hall are never what the ought to be.

Montgomery Hall was an imposing figure high atop a hill that once may have been green and lively, but had long since decayed into a hollow shell. It had been standing since the late 1400s, with a protruding rectangular front, marked by two angular parapets, and a cylindrical tower just farther back. If one were to look near the gardens, they’d find the abandoned ruins of a tiny stone cottage that once had been home to the Montgomery family.

The grounds were grey, all stone and rubble, and even in the hottest of summer days, it looked as if it had just rained. Every flower that grew out of the earth of the Montgomery’s hill was white and already near death, as the family had stopped tending to the garden years ago. The stoneface of the castle had weathered, yellowed, and was overtaken by moss and ivy. 

In the valley below the hall, laid Augurbury, which had originally been one of the largest wizard towns in the country, but had since been abandoned by all magical peoples during the witch hunts. All magical people, that is, except the Montgomerys, who come hell or high water would likely never leave.

There were no friends of Montgomery Hall, no enemies either, and it seemed that most people had forgotten it had existed all together. The townsfolk of Augurbury could not see it — not that they’d want to — and visitors were scarce, if they ever came at all.

Inside of the hall, the vibrancy of expensive fabrics had all been worn away by time, turning pale and grey. It was near impossible to differentiate between velvets and silks by look alone, but touching was strictly forbidden. The ceiling to floor stained glass windows were always shrouded by interlocked curtains, to hide that the colors had withered into a milky sort of grey. 

The walls of the hallway were bare stone except for light fixtures, home to no portraits or momentos, and every fireplace was lit, but emanated no warmth. There were thirty-two rooms in Montgomery Hall, not including the kitchens, but a maximum of six bedrooms were occupied in the past forty years. It was spacious enough to where any stray noise would echo, but there was not to be any stray noise. Everything had to be perfectly still.

In the very center of that very still manor stood a ghost of a girl, who was not meant to speak unless spoken to or be seen when she wasn’t wanted. Within those halls, she had to abandon herself, her passions, her personality, and become someone different. They called that girl “Pippa,” although that was not her name. It had been years since she was given the courtesy of her own name, so she had to accept “Pippa” as the next best thing

It seemed ironic that a family so obsessed with appearance had allowed for their home to fall into such disrepair, but that was still in their nature. What was done, was done, and devoting time and resources to fixing something broken would be acknowledging the past and the dead. And if there was one thing the Montgomery family never did, it was speak of the dead.

The girl she was before Pippa was meant to be dead, and was therefore treated as such.

When she stepped off the Hogwarts Express onto the platform, she was not greeted with the loving embrace of a mother. She watched as her friends were held tightly by their families, parents who lamented over the short absence of their children. She was met with an unmoving expression, which while not unfamiliar, broke her heart just a bit more every time. 

To make matters worse, she watched as her brother received a flurry of kisses all over his cheeks — her brother who never had his name changed, her brother whom their mother loved. She trailed behind as her mother strutted hand-in-hand with her youngest, heading to their home. Their home, yes, but not hers.

“Go unpack, Pippa,” was the first thing her mother said to her when they crossed over into Montgomery Hall, dark and dreary as always. “Dinner is in an hour.”

She never did unpack, not even in the summer. Everything she owned, she kept snugly within their container; she said it was to make a quick getaway if at all necessary. There had been times in the past where she’d considered fleeing, but she never had a where, no other place to go. So she kept it all packed up, and imagined she was really home.

There were two places that Pippa could visualize as home, and the older she got, the more they molded together into one. The first was a small brick home in the mountains, always blanketed in snow, but never cold for even a moment. The walls were a deep scarlet and shadows danced across them — a shadow play of a large family connected together in happiness.

The second home was Gryffindor Tower, with a group of friends huddled by the fire, sharing tales that had been passed down by their parents. In that group of friends was a boy with golden hazel eyes, whose colors swirled over and sparked with passion and excitement. Next to him was another boy, with eyes like precious jade, that listened to her with a quiet understanding. And she wasn’t sure which was home, if either.

But she supposed it didn’t matter any which way, as she was just Pippa standing in silence at the center of a particularly drafty part of the parlor room all dressed and painted up like a porcelain doll. Pippa the Toy, she thought. Pippa was not brave, courageous, and chivalrous. Pippa was not anything. Most importantly, Pippa was not real.

That was the only way she could get through the holidays, though, by being Pippa. Whenever she was outside the bounds of Montgomery Hall, she pretended that Pippa had never existed in the first place — that she had been Monty the whole time. Somehow she just couldn’t manage to be Monty there though, no matter how desperately she’d like to be.

“Pippa quit Quidditch this term, Mummy,” said Joel at dinner the first night. “Embarrassed me a bit. Everyone at school kept calling her a coward.”

_ I’m not the coward of the family.  _ Still, she bit her tongue — hard. Almost like a coward would.

Finch let out a pompous guffaw, his head was swollen a thousand times over with his own self importance. “Come on, now,” he said and stuck his nose up in the air. She’d have insulted his nose if it weren’t her own. “I think we all know she wouldn’t have gotten back on the team, even if it is Gryffindor.”

Joel and Finch tittered away for the rest of dinner, as they often did, only ever stopping to listen to Mummy Araminta or Aunt Maggie prattle on about the latest events in pureblood society. What was she supposed to do with the information about Darilla Fawley’s ballroom renovation? 

She sat in silence at every meal and did her reading on the far end of the dark grey sofa for the next few days. She refused to make a peep, and it didn’t matter as no one made much move to engage her in conversation. It was only when Finch and Joel mocked her honor that she was mentioned at all. She had to save her strength — she knew — for Christmas Eve and the events to follow.

There were two major Christmas events: the Christmas Eve cocktail at the Fawley’s (which may have been why Darilla’s renovations had been the talk of the caste) and the Christmas Ball at the Bulstrodes. Neither were particularly pleasant, but the Christmas Ball always left a distinct foul taste in her mouth, though that was at least in part due to the fact that the food was always near inedible.

Monty hid in her room for the hours leading up to dinner, and it didn’t matter very much because no one seemed to care enough to look for her. In fact, she’d be certain that they completely forgot about her if it weren’t for the house elf coming to “turn over the sheets” or “grab the laundry” once every few hours. Realistically, though, it was more likely that someone sent the poor house elf up to make sure Monty hadn’t escaped into Augurbury — it had been like that ever since her mother, whom she’d like to refer to solely as Araminta, had learned about Monty’s muggle interests.

It was nice to imagine the snow-lined streets of muggle Augurbury and the comforting silence of the town’s library, and it was easy now to imagine that she wouldn’t have to roam the streets alone. She could go trotting along store to muggle store alongside Natalia, two girls alike in oddness and finally close friends (best friends, even).

Unfortunately, that could not be further from her present reality. She was to be confined to the medieval prison that was Montgomery Hall, and besides, the Truitts were making their way around Greece for the next week and a half.

Still, Monty found that she couldn’t complain all too much, as avoiding her family gave her more than ample time to get ahead on Charms readings. No underaged witch or wizard enjoyed being forbidden from performing magic — she was sure. How was one expected to be a truly powerful witch if there were weeks and months on end where they couldn’t practice a damned thing? So Monty did as much reading and notetaking as she could, so that when the time came for her to brandish her wand again, she knew precisely what she was doing.

But James Potter could do everything she could do without half so much practice.

She shook all thoughts of James Potter out of her head. He had no place here, no belonging to the misshapen stone walls of the Hall. Surely time away from the boy would rid her of all the sneaking affection that had built over the past few weeks. Come January, Montgomery Baird wouldn’t think twice about the poor bastard.

“Miss Pippa?” The squeaky voice of Echo — Montgomery Hall’s house elf — broke Monty out of all James Potter related musings. She’d never been so glad for the tiny creature until that point, but still felt a deep wave of sadness whenever she saw her.

There really was no way to feel comfortable around house elves, or at least that was how Monty felt. She learned of slavery in elementary school in Colorado, and yet came to Britain and watched a whole species live in subjugation. Whenever she brought it up to her family as a reason for concern, she was belittled and told that house elves didn’t want their freedom. And she was certain that if she ever broached the subject with a house elf, they would be afraid to admit the truth.

So she felt all she could do was treat them as her equal, although she knew deep down that it did nothing but perpetuate the cycle.

“Hi, Echo!” Monty turned around in her desk chair and tried her best to sound cheerful. “How have you been?”

Echo shuffled forward. “Good, good,” she said, flustered. “Echo is good, but Mistress has requested the presence of Miss Pippa in the dining room for dinner.”

“I really would prefer it if you called me Monty.”

Echo’s small features — already located close together on her face — scrunched together in distaste. She sighed deeply as she tugged the sheets off Monty’s bed. Monty didn’t see any need to clean them just yet, as she’d only been home a few days, but if it made Echo more comfortable then so be it. “Echo is very, very sorry, Miss Pippa, but Mistress Araminta made it quite clear that you are to be called Miss Pippa. Nothing else.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Monty said with a sly smirk. “Oh, come on, Echo, please. Just for me? You’re my only friend here.” She batted her long eyelashes as she pleaded. Perhaps it was a little manipulative, but it wasn’t untrue. Echo was the closest thing she had to a friend in Montgomery Hall.

“Oh, yes, yes, alright,” mumbled Echo. “More and more like Master Phillip every day” Echo jumped in sudden panic, her long ears flopping up and down. “Oh, no, no, please do not tell Mistresses that Echo said that!”

It wasn’t the first time Echo had let information about the deceased slip, and it was likely to be far from the last. Echo was well over a hundred years old, though she refused to share her exact age, and had seen generations of Montgomerys come and go. Every so often, the house elf would accidentally drop hints of what Monty’s distant family was like, little nuggets of times that had past, parts of people that still lived on in her.

When she was nine, she had learned from Echo that her grandfather was a fantastic Quidditch Chaser at Hogwarts and was lined up to play for Puddlemere United, except his mother insisted he go to Canada to find a wife after graduation. Echo once shared the legendary love story of her great-grandfather, Joel P. Montgomery, who fell deeply in love with a Mexican heiress, Melisenda Caticovas, and they married even though it meant she had to relinquish up her inheritance to her cousin. When Monty was eleven, Echo let one of the darkest family secrets slip.

She knew — only vaguely from the family tree in the parlor — that her mother had not one, but two younger brothers. She knew enough about Phillip, as his death was far less taboo, but one night Echo swore she heard the cries for help of little Stephen Montgomery all the way down the hall into the East Wing of the house.

In the wee hours of the morning on the 17th of April 1997, Echo was awake hours later than she normally would, not given the chance to sleep quite yet, doing all of the dishes (by hand, mind you) from a dinner party that Nan had thrown the night before. It was in the kitchen, delirious from lack of sleep, that Echo had first heard Stephen’s screams of terror. She had initially written it off as nightmares — Stephen was only five and apparently would get them often, fearing vampires and werewolves more than anything — and she chose to continue her chores and let Nan tend to her child.

It wasn’t until Echo heard snarling, those of a ferocious beast, that she rushed into Stephen’s room. Forgetting her magic, she ran (and regrets her inaction to this very day) and came upon the shredded, bloodied body of the five year old boy, marred beyond all recognition except for what was left of his Golden Snitch printed pajamas.

Hours later, Stephen Montgomery was pronounced dead at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, just one wing down from where he was born five years prior, murdered by a werewolf.

Echo would not dare tell Monty any more of the murder or why it happened, and she begged Monty to keep the knowledge secret. 

Monty nodded at the elf. “Won’t tell a soul.”

Then she had to become Pippa again, heading back down the grand staircase and turning the corner through the parlor room, and finally landing in the dining room. Monty was the last one to the table — she usually was — and the rest of her family pretended to not notice her presence, as they always did. 

Araminta Montgomery-Baird sat at the head of the table, playing matriarch. Monty hated it (she really, really hated it) that Araminta looked just like her, only older. She had the same long chocolate waves that were now peppered in with the beginnings of silver, the famous Montgomery nose, and the same upturned auburn-brown eyes. They were practically interchangeable, except for Araminta’s near constant scowl.

Monty’s grandmother, Opaline Finch-Montgomery, sat at Araminta’s left side — once a prominent member of the Canadian pureblood Finch family, but now very well near unresponsive. She was inching ever closer to one hundred (had Araminta in her late fifties, and kept going well into her sixties), and her hearing had very recently given out. Her husband had died twenty-six years prior, and it would not have been a shock to anyone if she was on her way out now as well.

The family began the first course of their meal in silence, as was tradition, but at the second course Araminta took a turn and began addressing Monty directly. She peered over the rim of her tortoise shell glasses at her daughter, seemingly scanning for any trace of weakness. “So,” began Araminta, “what have you been doing at school if not Quidditch, Pippa? We haven’t gotten a single letter from you. We started to worry that you managed to kill Olly. Even Finch was able to write all the way from Brussels.”

Monty hadn’t received a single letter from them either, so it went both ways as far as she was concerned. She did suppose that Olly probably needed to stretch her wings more next term, though. “I got invited into Slug Club,” she said, and she didn’t look up from her potatoes. “Slughorn only invited the top two in my year.”

“So you’re first in your year?” Araminta said, and she almost smiled, almost impressed, but not quite.

“No,” Monty replied. “James Potter is first.”

Araminta set down her fork with a clank. “Well, it would be more impressive if you were first.” Araminta gave her taut, haughty little smile and glanced around the table, proud of what she had said. “Second place isn’t much to brag about now, is it?”

Monty felt her ears redden. Faint memories of a poor, beautiful blonde girl getting torn to shreds by her evil step family passed through her head.  _ At least Cinderella wasn’t blood related to them. _

Joel and Finch snickered between themselves, no doubt pleased to watch her get struck down. Aunt Maggie stifled her laughter with her decorative napkin and then said, “Oh Merlin, Pippa, she was just kidding. Don’t take everything so seriously.” Maggie looked over at Finch and sent a sly smirk his way.

Hyenas, the lot of them were.

“You know Gryffindors,” chimed Finch. “All instinct and no intellect.”

“Finch was never first in his year.” Her voice began to rise, though she knew her defensiveness would only make things worse. “He wasn’t even in the top five.”

“I was Head Boy and Quidditch Captain.”

Still, she couldn’t help the words frothing out of her mouth. “I could be Head Girl!”

Joel snorted. “And I’m the next Headmaster.”

“Shut up, Joel,” she spat. “No one cares about your opinion.”

“Don’t talk to your brother like that,” scolded Araminta. Her cold, dead glare meant finality, and Monty knew that if she pressed the issue any further, she was at risk at getting hexed to high heaven. She’d bet they wanted to, the whole family, because if she was dead, then they wouldn’t have to talk about her ever again.

“Fine,” Monty shot back. She set down the silverware, her appetite thoroughly spoiled.

“Now regarding tonight and tomorrow.” Araminta had the usual spiel: Cover your mouth when you laugh, don’t talk too loud, do not approach a pureblood, always let them come to you.

It was the kind of thing that always made her wonder if the Montgomerys were blood purists in hiding, as if every holiday season served as a reminder that she was less than — less than pureblood mother, aunt, and grandmother, even less than her own brothers. 

Long gone were the days of the small house at the base of the mountain range, a loving family all still in their pajamas huddled around the Christmas tree in the living room. Christmas used to have muggle movies playing in the background, while Monty’s father hoisted each of his children up to place ornaments upon the tree. They didn’t need the kind of magic that lived in their blood, only the kind that buzzed around the air as they drove street by street to look at the lights.

Monty wanted that magic again; she wanted that family again. “Did Aunt Jen send anything?” she asked, putting on a honeyed tone for innocence’s sake. 

Araminta’s shoulders tensed in a way Monty wouldn’t have noticed if the body didn’t look so much like her own. Her mother’s bottom lip tucked under her teeth for a moment, then all at once, she regained all normal composure. “No,” she said, airly. “I don’t see any reason why she would. That woman has nothing to say to any of us.” 

Maggie bristled as well. She was equally as shrewish as her older sister, if not more so. Unlike the rest of the family, she never left Britain and never made any moves to marry, and Monty was sure her plain looks did not help her in that department. Her hair was thin and straw-like in texture and a dull sort of brown that wasn’t likely to turn heads, and her eyes looked just as lifeless. She looked frail, practically sickly, and one would think that she was halfway to her deathbed, only she was otherwise exceptionally healthy.

“Minta!” Aunt Maggie cut in quickly before the conversation could progress in a more negative direction. “Why don’t you tell the children about your special gift? I think we’re all about done eating, anyway.” No one but Monty was done eating; they hadn’t even gotten to the main course.

Joel pitched forward in his seat. He was a selfish sort of young man, not unlike their older brother, and couldn’t help but be obnoxious. “Yes!” Joel cried. If Monty had made any similar type of sharp noise, she would have been scolded or even sent to her room, but instead, Araminta smiled softly at her baby boy.

“Oh, alright, alright,” said Araminta. She glanced over to her elderly mother for support, though Nan seemed unaware that there was any conversation to be had. “Well, I’ve talked it over with Mum and Maggie.” It was unlikely that Nan had replied. “We decided together that it simply wasn’t right that the Hall would be passed down without the Montgomery name along with it. After hundreds of years, we cannot let the Montgomery name die.”

Monty, in the most technical sense, had the Montgomery name, but Merlin forbid anyone here call her by it. She could feel her anger spike in the center of her stomach, always one jab right after the other.

“So,” Araminta continued on, “We’ve decided that the four of us — myself included — will all change our surnames to Montgomery once again.”

Joel cheered out in excitement, bouncing up and down in his seat like a bumbling toddler, and Maggie clapped along jovially to encourage him. Finch turned sharply in his seat to look at Monty. He grinned, fully, with a single eyebrow raised and his eyes glinting with pride. He wanted her name from the moment he recognized the privilege it held. Being a Canadian Finch in a British wizarding society meant nothing, but being a Montgomery meant much, much more. And why should the uncouth, American Gryffindor get to have it?

Monty, though, was left dumbfounded, sticken. “What?” she sputtered. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she was sure everyone could hear it. Her brain tossed and turned over in her skull trying to get any sense of how any of it made a lick of sense. “Why?”

Araminta’s lips tightened together again, her own anger seemed to rise up, but she had to have known — she  _ had  _ to — that this would mortally wound her own daughter. “What is the problem, Pippa?”

“Montgomery is  _ my  _ name,” she said. There was no indignation in her tone, she didn’t think, only sheer confusion. “You don’t really expect my name to be Montgomery Montgomery, do you?”

The whole table (except for Nan, who didn’t look to have the faintest clue what was happening) exchanged frustrated glares at one another. It was only a matter of time before they found a reason to be cross with her, but it had never been over anything half so large. She had come into the holiday anticipating another pointless argument about changing her accent for higher society, or more anger at her Gryffindor alignment, but never this.

Maggie masked her fury with perfunctory sugar and said, “Your name has always really been Pippa to us, darling.”

Pippa. Fucking Pippa. Pippa was nobody, a fantasy, a stupid image that they made up in their heads when Montgomery Baird turned out to be nothing but a miserable disappointment. It wasn’t about continuing the family name. If it was, Araminta never would have named her “Montgomery.” She would have been Pippa from the start, and then she could have decided who Pippa would be. No, no, this was about humiliating her, harming her.

“Do not call me Pippa,” Monty snarled, and her body began to shake. She rose from her seat, careful not to make any sudden movements, but searching her brain for every exit.

“Merlin, Pippa!” Finch exclaimed. “You only ever think about yourself, you know that? It’s the family’s name, not yours. We’re the last of the Montgomerys. Don’t you think the rest of us would like to have a chance at continuing the house?”

“We’re the last of the Bairds!” exclaimed Monty, and Finch rolled his eyes in annoyance as if the Baird name was an insult in itself.

Then, it was suddenly clear. This had nothing to do with her at all, no. This was about ridding the family of the Baird name all at once and tearing away the shame of having a dirty muggle in the lineage.

“Oh, I see.” Monty’s voice ebbed and flowed in the storm. “This is about him!”

Araminta sprang to her feet, her nostrils flaring and her hand on the hilt of her wand. “Don’t you dare start this,” she said, dangerously calm, though the twitching of her eye spoke otherwise. “I will not let you make me into the monster.”

“Make you?” Monty cried. “All you do is tear and tear and tear away at me. You don’t let me have my pride, or my name, or my family!

“It isn’t enough for you that he’s dead, is it? You want to murder his memory too — all of you — because you’re ashamed that he soiled your precious, pure bloodline. You pretend like you aren’t purist, but you are. You’re an evil, disgusting purist.” Monty faced her brothers. “And if you two think that she isn’t just as revolted at you two as she is with me, you’re delusional.”

Maggie and Finch both jolted to their feet, readying their own wands. Joel glowered at her, with eyes that looked so much like her own, and even Nan looked upon her with unadulterated detestation. For a moment, the whole dining room froze in a standoff, like the kind Monty remembered from old movies.

With that, Monty sprinted out of the dining room. What Monty said must have finally set in because not a second later Araminta ran after her, screaming, “Phillipa, you get back here this instant!” Monty continued running out of the parlor room and up the staircase. “You cretinous little child!” Araminta continued to shout. Monty reached the door to her room and flung it open, only moments before her mother reached the top of the stairs and tried to shoot a charm to lock it. “How dare you turn your back on your family?” Araminta howled at her from the other side of the door, but she made no other move to open it.

“You can keep the name,” Monty yelled back. “I want no part of this stupid fucking family!”

Pippa was gone. Pippa was dead, but what to do? 

The shaking returned to her body, enveloping her in panic now that the adrenaline had subsided. She could feel the incessant slamming of her pulse against her ear drum, seeming to shout at her to get out, get out, get out. She paced around her room — that ugly, soulless bedroom that sucked the life out of her, that dementor’s kiss bedroom. 

“I wanna go home,” she whispered, and hot streams of tears finally began to fall down her cheeks. “I wanna go home. I wanna go home.”

There was no going to Hogwarts, not for another two weeks. She imagined that she couldn’t exactly floo to the Gryffindor common room. Natalia was still in Greece, so she couldn’t escape out the window and run into town. Nadim lived with his muggle family in London, thoroughly un-floo-able.

Out of the blue, the words of sweet little Albus Severus Potter rang through her head. “Well,” he had said, and his shimmery green eyes became clearer in her mind’s eye. “You’re always welcome at the Potter House.”

It was a long shot, to be sure. She highly doubted that the house of the most famous wizard in the country would be so casually set up to the Floo Network, but she had to take her chances. It was do or die, as far as she was concerned.

Without thinking on it a moment longer, Monty snatched up her two suitcases — doing her best to hold both in one hand — threw in a handful of floo powder from her bedside table and rushed into the fireplace. As clearly as she could, she shouted, “The Potter House!” and vanished into the emerald flames.

Monty kept her eyes firmly shut, fearing for less than ideal results, which caused her to trip on some sort of metal fixture and tumbled forth out of whatever fireplace she landed in. Opening her eyes, she found herself in a brightly lit, scarlet-colored living room. Perched atop the couch with an understandably alarmed expression was the very person she’d meant to abandon all thoughts and feelings for over winter holiday: James Potter.

In that moment, Monty realized that she hadn’t quite thought the situation through, as she couldn’t expect to not think about James Potter and send herself directly into his home at the same time. And at that same moment, Monty felt the uniquely familiar feeling of utter mortification wash over her. “I-” Monty stumbled while trying to stand. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

James stayed frozen in shock, while the figure of Lily Potter meandered into the room from what appeared to be the kitchen. The tiny redhead stared at Monty in confusion for a brief second, then looked over to where James remained wide eyed and mouth hanging. Lily sighed, then turned towards the entryway through which she came. “Mom!” Lily yelled. “James’ girlfriend is here!”

That seemed sufficient enough to shake him out of his state. “What?” James said to his little sister. “She’s not my girlfriend. I didn’t invite her.”

Another wave of mortification hit Monty. “Oh, God.”

From three separate directions, the rest of the Potter family came rushing out. Albus — who had the most heads up for the present situation — ran in with an open-mouthed grin, thrilled to see his friend. Harry Potter came in with a similar smile to his younger son (albeit a touch more perplexed), probably just pleasantly surprised at James’ ability to get a girlfriend (for which he’d be soon disappointed). Lastly, Ginny Weasley-Potter came running out of the same room that Lily had, her wand drawn and readied to fight off an intruder — which was in Monty’s opinion the only reasonable reaction.

Albus was the first to approach her, never slowing down until he wrapped his arms around her. “Monty,” he said, pulling her in. “I’m so glad you came. Are you alright?”

With all the excitement of floo travel and the mortal embarrassment of showing up inside a home unannounced, Monty had completely forgotten that her cheeks were still wet from tears. Furthermore, while all of the Potters were dressed comfortably in various arrays of pajamas and loungewear, Monty was still dressed in her mother’s old dress robes and clutching her suitcases for dear life. “I’m,” Monty started. “I’m sorry. There was this— and I didn’t know what to do— and then I remembered the other week, Al when you said that I was always welcome— so I panicked, and now I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’ll just go back.”

Ginny darted forward and stowed her wand away. “Oh no you won’t,” she said, and she began ushering Monty towards the large center couch. Ginny took the suitcases from her and handed them to James. “Set her up in Lysander’s room for now,” she told him.

James nodded and made his way through the doorway that Albus had come through. 

Monty took a moment to appreciate the Potter House’s living room. It was spacious, but unlike the cold, empty feeling of Montgomery Hall’s parlor room, the living room felt lived-in and inviting. All together, it didn’t look too unlike the Gryffindor common room, and Monty could only assume that it was designed with that in mind. A large tan sofa sat in the center of the room, framed by two gold-colored arm chairs, and on each seat large, fluffy blankets were thrown lazily over. On the cushion next to where James had been sitting a few minutes before (and now where Monty was seated) laid a sleeping orange cat, who seemed blissfully unaware of the movement of the rest of its family.

“You told her to come here?” Ginny asked Albus.

He smiled back at her with pride. “Sure did!”

She scooped him up in a tight hug and spun him in a little circle. “That’s my boy!” Ginny grinned over to Harry. “He takes after his mum.”

“You say that about all of our kids,” replied Harry.

“That’s because they’re all cool.”

“So only you’re cool?” Harry raised an eyebrow, which inadvertently drew attention to his famous scar.

(Monty tried her best to quell her awe over being in the living room of the most famous wizard in the world, and he wears plaid pajama pants.)

“Absolutely,” Ginny quipped, and she tossed her bright red locks over her shoulder. “I’m the cool parent.”

Harry laughed, and Monty watched in amazement as the family talked freely with one another. No one seemed to be expected to remain silent, no one member of the family a target of every mean-spirited joke. Once James rejoined the group in the living room, Lily pulled Exploding Snap cards from a drawer of the center table, challenging her brothers to another game.

“How about we all play?” Harry suggested, and he looked to Monty for confirmation.

James shook his head admiantly. “No way,” he cried through a lopsided smile. “Monty always wins. I’d at least like a shot.”

Ginny sat on the ground next to him, adjusting her cardigan, and helping Lily to set up the deck. “You’ll lose either way,” she said and patted him on the knee. “You’re never gonna beat your dear old mum.”

The Potter family gathered in a circle on the carpet, teasing each other gently and indulging in the moment. James, who had very quickly lost, pulled his little sister into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles against her flaming red hair. Lily kicked and screamed at him to let her go, but never let her smile fade from her face. Albus joined in on the torture, taking the free opportunity to tickle his little sister. 

Even when Harry scolded his sons — instructing them to let their sister go — it came from a place of love, the hint of amusement painting his tone. Lily sent her father a grateful smile, then immediately stuck her tongue out at her brothers. 

Together, they were the portrait of the perfect family, connected as a whole and united in all things. For the first time in years, Monty remembered what it was like to be embraced in warmth and comfort, the magic she had missed for so long, and once again feeling like she was accepted for the person she was.

Pippa was gone. Pippa was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! Thank you for getting this far into this story, and I do hope you enjoyed it. I'm hoping to get my next chapter out a little early, so everyone can get a chance to read it before Christmas. 
> 
> As always, I would really love any comments or kudos. I'd like to know what's working for the story, or what isn't. In the next couple weeks, I'll be going through and doing some editing in the earlier chapters to make sure that my grammar is more consistent. Looking back, I probably should have written the whole story before I began posting, but hindsight is 20/20 (even if my regular sight is far from it).


	15. A Very Potter Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas at the Potter House, and James is quite thrilled with their guest,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a filler chapter originally... whoops.

Probably the last thing James expected at 5 o’clock on Christmas Eve was his quasi-rival tumbling straight out of his fireplace. Though if he were being honest, he didn’t particularly mind it. He was very grateful that he had forgotten to light the fireplace when Mum had asked him to, otherwise things would have gotten nasty.

The strangest thing was that he’d been thinking about her when it happened, or more accurately, he was still picturing her dark green velvet dress swishing back and forth in the moonlight. He’d been thinking about how she looked at the Slug Club Christmas party incessantly, unable to focus on anything else.

So naturally, James was shocked to see her materialize before his eyes, crying and clutching her belongings. It was what he wished she had done last Christmas instead of staying locked up in the soulless towers of Montgomery Hall (he had no idea what Monty’s home looked like, but he imagined it was something akin to a medieval fortress) — get away from her horrible family and come to him.

That’s when he realized that this whole thing, all of his rumination over her, had been going on for a hell of a lot longer than he knew before. James always liked to be a knight in shining armour, but now he recognized that the instinct was almost always solely reserved for her. But now was not the time for that, because his mum wanted him to take Monty’s bags up to Lysander’s usual room.

His family made the right call when it came to dealing with Monty, which was to wrap her up in comfort and not ask any of the hard hitting questions quite yet. He’d learned many years ago that any sudden action could cause her to either clam up or lash out. It was all about easing right into it — business as usual.

After a few rounds of losing miserably at Exploding Snap, the growling of James’ stomach reminded him that they had likely left the food cooking for a tad too long. “Oi, Mum!” James cried. “The stew!”

“Merlin,” Ginny grumbled, scrambling to get off the floor and rushing into the kitchen. After a moment of distant clanking, she called back, “The stew survived!”

Albus and Lily gave out a little cheer, and James looked to Monty, who sat with legs crossed, uncharacteristically prim and proper. She shifted, looking to be uncomfortable in her dress robes — which appeared to be made of a stiff material that had once been a more vibrant color, but had faded to an off-white. Her hair was pulled half-way up, immaculately curled, but all together looking nothing like what she was comfortable in.

James rose to his feet and held his hand out to her, helping her up off the beige carpet. “You’ll probably want to change,” he said, and he began to lead her out to the foyer.

“I hope you’re hungry,” added Harry behind them.

Monty ducked her head with a shy smile, tucking a stray strand of curled hair behind her ear. “I already ate at home,” she admitted to James. 

“It’s only, like, 5:30.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” she replied, drily. “I was supposed to be getting ready for the Fawleys’ Christmas Eve cocktail party.”

James cringed in return, eternally thankful that his family didn’t partake in the high society hullabaloo. The Slug Club party had been enough for him for a whole lifetime, and he couldn’t begin to imagine the stuffy pureblood lifestyle Monty had been trapped in — and he didn’t want to.

James escorted Monty up the dark wood ornamental staircase to the second floor. Really, James didn’t see any reason why any house should have more than two stories, but he supposed that when the house was built (somewhere around the 1880s, he was fairly sure), it was the latest fashion for wizard architecture. Then again, he also found Hogwarts’ grandiose size to be overkill, so perhaps he just wasn’t much of an architecture aficionado. 

Monty, on the other hand, spun around once she reached the second floor balcony to marvel at the home. “Merlin,” she whispered. “Your house is gorgeous.” And James had to admit that when she stood at its very center, it looked somewhere close to beautiful.

The Potter House was the pinnacle of Gryffindor pride — all scarlets, golds, and brilliant whites from top to bottom. The exterior was a strong crimson with archways plated in gold leaf and two lion statues taking guard outside, and soaring above the rest of the home’s angular skyline was the cylindrical tower, a not-so-subtle nod to Gryffindor tower itself.

The home’s interior was lined with opulent patterned wallpaper and mahogany doorways, and depending on the room, the furniture was stiff with extravagant fabrics and designs. They had been inherited with the house and had hardly been touched for at least twenty years, as the home had stood entirely vacant for his father’s entire childhood. 

Most of the rooms went largely unused, but the ones that were frequented had more modern, secondhand furniture. James had been lucky enough to inherit his grandfather James’ childhood room, which came with old 1970s Quidditch posters and Gryffindor banners. For the most part, the home was a welcoming space, a loving embrace, and a continuation of the warm feeling of Gryffindor Tower. Still, it felt far too spacious for the small family of five, and he imagined it felt all the more lonely for his grandfather with only two parents to keep him company.

Lysander’s room was the only non-family room that was regularly kept up for company. James did it personally every time he was home, always secretly hoping that Lysander would surprise him with a visit. James was certainly glad he’d maintained that habit now, as Monty’s arrival marked the very first time the work had actually paid off.

“Well, this is it,” said James, awkwardly presenting the room to her. She sat on the edge of the bed, first cautiously, then bounced on it. She was ready to talk, he thought. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” He sat on the armchair that faced the bed.

Monty bit her bottom lip and visibly deflated, but dove into her harrowing narrative nonetheless. She spoke at twice her usual speed, racing through the background of “Pippa” — the name her mother started calling her as a punishment when she misbehaved — and zooming through the series of events that finally led up to the climax of her evening: the Bairds were to become the Montgomerys again.

“But you can’t be ‘Montgomery Montgomery,’” noted James.

“That’s what I said!” Monty flicked her hands up in her frustration. “That’s when all hell broke loose, so I said they could all change their names — I don’t give a shit — but I’m done being a part of that family.” 

It was true Monty fashion, James mused, that she would act so deliberately flippant about something so horrible. He’d seen it time and time again, outbursts followed by a devil-may-care demeanor, but there was nothing he could do about it just yet. She would pick at the bricks of her own wall one by one, and eventually they would be able to talk about it more. But not now.

James got up out of the armchair (reluctantly, as it was really damn comfortable) and walked over to the doorway. “I’ll let you get changed, and I’ll see you downstairs, yeah?” Monty nodded with a small smile, and James closed the door behind him.

The moment he turned in the hall, he was met with the face of his father, which wrought with care and concern, but otherwise scared the living hell right of James’ very soul. “Merlin, Dad!” James clutched his chest and tried to slow his breathing.

“Is she alright?” Harry asked.

James glanced back towards the closed bedroom door. “She’ll say yeah,” he said. “I’ll say not yet.”

Harry nodded, rubbing his chin in thought. He was trying to grow a beard — with little success — and James tried not to crack yet another joke about the patchy salt and pepper stubble, as he’d spent the whole first day back home laying into it. “Should I talk to her?” And James really had to bite his tongue trying not to laugh at the image of poor Monty Baird getting a notorious Harry Potter pep-talk.

“Let’s see how she feels after dinner,” James replied. 

“Right,” agreed Harry. “What even happened?”

The father-son duo headed down the staircase to the living room, and to the best of his ability, James tried to relay the story. When they reached the entryway to the kitchen, James wrapped up his heavily abridged version of Monty’s horrid evening, and he gave his father a quick hug, “Long story short,” he said, muffled by his father’s shirt, “I’m pretty glad you’re my family.”

Harry patted his son’s head with a small chuckle, “Wish I could say the same, son,” and together they went to sit at the kitchen table.

Dinner was fine — great actually, as Monty had just about a billion questions for the whole family. They talked about anything from Ginny’s Quidditch column in the _ Daily Prophet  _ to Ginny’s Quidditch career on the Holyhead Harpies (and here James thought Monty had abandoned her passion for the sport). With every bite of beef stew, it seemed increasingly so that Monty deserved a space within the walls of the Potter House.

Somehow that was harder for James than if she didn’t fit in at all. As he watched Lily and his mum fawn over her and Al and his dad toss around witty remarks, it became ever clearer that there was no way for him to fight his feelings for her. 

What was he supposed to do with that, really? She was still so wary of him, and worst of all, she had a bloody boyfriend.  _ Stupid Nadim Bahri.  _ He was growing obsessed with the whole situation, even he could admit it at this point.

There she was, clearly adored by his entire family, and she clearly liked them back — all of them, but him. That wasn’t the point, not now at least. If there was one thing he could do about his feelings, it was to put them to use and help her. 

Merlin help him, but what he thought could really help her was — in fact — a notorious Harry Potter pep-talk, and that was exactly what she was going to get.

He probably shouldn’t have eavesdropped from the living room as Monty and his dad sat at the kitchen table for their chat, James knew he shouldn’t, but sometimes he simply could not help himself. He was human after all, and there was a certain je ne sais quoi about the whole situation that dared tickle his fancy.

So there he stood, hiding behind the plastic potted fern on the other side of the kitchen entryway, listening… and realizing for the first time in his entire life that the fern had been fake the whole time. (Dad used to make him water it; did he also not know it wasn’t real?)

From the kitchen, James listened in as Harry said to Monty, “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m all good,” she replied. “Thank you.”

Harry hummed. “You know, I didn’t grow up with a very good home life myself actually.”

Monty chuckled. “Uh, yeah, I think I might have heard a thing or two about that.”

“The Weasleys took me in as their own,” Harry said. “They’ve been my family ever since I met them, really. There’s something interesting about family, about how it isn’t always about what’s in your blood — kind of like magic. There are muggleborns who are the best witches and wizards of their age, and there are purebloods who aren’t really good at what they do. It doesn’t matter so much about where you come from, but who decides to stick with you.

“Maybe it’s just me — I don’t know — but I think family is more of a choice than we think. We get to choose who we keep with us. Sometimes that’s our own flesh and blood, and sometimes it isn’t.”

There was a hushed silence from the kitchen, enough so that James almost felt the need to go in there and wrap things up, but Monty’s voice stopped him just in time. “I guess it’s like,” she said, sounding choked up. “I did my best to choose them, but they never wanted to choose me. I did what they wanted — as much as I could, anyway — but I couldn’t stop being myself. I didn’t want to stop being myself.”

“I think it’s brave to be who you are,” said Harry, and James could hear the calm smile in his voice, “especially when people want you to be someone else, but then you find people who don’t want you to be anything other than you. From what I’ve heard, my kids think pretty highly of you.”

There was a rustle from the other side of the plastic fern James was crouching down behind, then a bright red blur popped out from the shiny green leaves.

“What are you doing?” Lily asked suddenly, startling James. 

He shushed her and pulled her away from the entryway. “I’m monitoring the conversation,” James whispered and grabbed his sisters shoulders to hide them both behind the sofa.

Lily matched his hushed tone, her face scrunched together in confusion. “Why?”

“Monty’s sensitive. She might get defensive.”

The little redhead nodded in understanding. They rose from their hideout, tiptoed back to the fern, and together they huddled closer to the doorway to listen again.

“Wait,” James ushered her away from the door again. “Where’s Mum and Al?”

“They went to Diagon Alley to try and get Monty a Christmas gift.”

James arched an eyebrow. “And why aren’t you with them?”

Lily shrugged. “I don’t know her that well.”

“Wouldn’t a girl’s perspective be useful?”

She stared at him blankly, slowly blinking with her massive, round brown eyes. For a moment, they just stood there in silence, facing each other. Then, “You do remember Mum’s a girl, right?”

James’ eyebrows drew together in thought. “Huh,” he mumbled. “Didn’t think of it like that before.”

His baby sister rolled her eyes in sheer annoyance. In his defense, James was never a contender for Ravenclaw house, and he didn’t pretend to be.

A small pang hit James’ chest. “Why didn’t they ask me to come?”

Lily looked at her feet, kicking at the carpet with her fuzzy socks. Her silence was answer enough — Albus had been avoiding him all week, and it didn’t seem to be changing any time soon. Both seemed eager to change the course of conversation and wordlessly returned to listen in on Harry and Monty’s conversation.

“I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon,” Monty said. “Again, I’m sorry for coming in unannounced.”

Their father scoffed. “Don’t worry about it,” said Harry. “We want you to stay as long as you need. I’m not sending you back there if your family won’t treat you well.

“Besides, my wife’s been obsessed with you ever since she saw you in the Gryffindor v.s. Hufflepuff game earlier this year — brilliant flying skills, by the way. You’re not getting rid of her any time soon, believe me. You’re stuck with us, for now at least.”

Monty giggled. “Thank you, Mr. Potter.”

Lily waggled her eyebrows at James from the shroud of the fern’s leaves, grinning like a madwoman. “Ooh, she’s staying,” the ginger whispered. “And you’re blushing.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t fight the growing heat spreading across his face, and honestly, he didn’t feel much need to attempt to slow its advancement. Almost two weeks more of Miss Montgomery Baird than he would have had before, and perhaps that would be enough for him to change the tide of their relationship. Merlin, he hoped it’d be enough for him to change the tides.

* * *

James rose before the sun on Christmas mornings, ever since he was a wee, baby-faced lad. More accurately, he didn’t sleep a wink in the night leading up to the rise of the morning sun. How could he? It was Christmas Day!

On a normal Christmas morning, he’d rush into Albus’ room and jump on his bed until he woke up, but on this particular day, James had to play it cool. He was standing on the precipice of sixteen now, and if he wanted to be treated like an adult, he had to present himself as an adult. So instead, James strolled about his morning routine with an air of leisure, but even he couldn’t quell his excitement for the day ahead.

What’s more, he was spending his favorite holiday with her — and she was going to meet the rest of his family. It was enough to put a skip in anyone’s step, so could you really blame him if he was ready for the day half an hour before anyone else even woke up? Of course not. 

James sat at the kitchen table, dressed in his favorite cream coloured sweater — knowing full well it would be replaced with Grandma’s annual knit “J” sweater in only a matter of hours — and his black curls pomaded neatly. His left leg shook up and down at an incredible speed never before seen by the eyes of mankind, and James was unsure if it was out of excitement or anxiety.

As James watched the short hand of the clock finally pass over the eight, Albus strolled lazily into the kitchen and grabbed a slice of treacle tart out of the glass container. There the brothers sat, face to face and alone for the first time in a very long time.

“You’ll spoil breakfast if you eat that,” noted James, who was unsure what to say.

Albus rolled his eyes. “What do you care?” He shoved another bite of tart into his mouth with a pointed glare at his older brother.

He never was much of a morning person, often irritable and unsociable until midday. The number of times that James had to physically separate Albus and Rose (who was also violently not a morning person) in the early hours of the day to maintain peace was uncountable. Now, James was going to have to play referee on several different fronts with the addition of Monty.

That thought served to dampen James’ mood a tick, as he preferred that everyone remained friendly, especially on holidays, but Roxanne and Rose were still riding the Anti-Monty Express.

“Mum wanted me to remind you not to say anything about Aunt Hermione being appointed as the next Minister of Magic,” said Albus through a mouthful of treacle tart. “Apparently Uncle Percy is still bent outta shape ‘bout it — thought it shoulda been him, I guess.”

James blinked and shook his head. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’”

This was the first James had heard anything of the sort, and it clearly hadn’t been in any of the papers. “When’d that happen?”

Albus set down his fork and took a moment to swallow his last bite of pastry. He coughed sharply to clear his throat, and he raised his eyebrows at the elder Potter boy. “I told Lil to tell you about it,” said Al. “Kingsley Shacklebolt’s stepping down Monday, and he appointed Aunt Hermione to take over. It’s temporary for now, but I mean there’s no doubt she’ll get elected officially.” James continued to stare blankly. “Really no one told you this?”

“No!” cried James, and he drew his shoulders up near his ears and flicked his palms upward. “Why didn’t I hear about it in the  _ Prophet _ ?”

“It was front page two weeks ago, James,” replied Al. “The rest of us have known for ‘bout a month now.”

Damn studying must’ve kept him away from the news cycle. Come to think of it, though, James had been treated extra special at Slughorn’s party, even by Potter standards.  _ Am I clueless? … No… right? _

James noticed that Albus was eyeing him, scrutinizing him even, and regarding him with the utmost caution. His emerald eyes glinted with an expression that James was not able to place. Though, he was sure that if he had actually put in the effort and care into spending time with his little brother, he’d know what the look meant. “What?” asked James.

The look disappeared with the shake of Al’s head, his brown waves bounced as he did so — his hair was growing curlier with age. James never thought they looked much alike before, but he was starting to see it as they both got older. Albus muttered, “It’s nothing,” and got up to leave the kitchen. “Everyone will be here soon. We’ll talk later, maybe.”

And he vanished into the hallway.

* * *

What do you get when you cross a large gathering with the Weasley family extension? A whole wall of unstoppable sound. 

The first to arrive in the fireplace of the Potter House were Uncle Percy, Aunt Audrey, Molly, and Lucy, promptly at 10 o’clock. In usual fashion, Percy and Audrey came in as a proper set — always immaculately dressed and always matching. Molly and Lucy were arguing over something or other and were quickly silenced by their father. Molly greeted the Potter family happily, while Lucy remained in the corner of the living room by the Christmas tree with a sullen expression and her arms crossed.

Only a few minutes later, Uncle Bill, Aunt Fleur, Dominique, and Louis filed in, followed very quickly by Victoire — who was attached to Teddy — and then Andromeda. It took only seconds before Ginny noticed the sparkling diamond ring on Victoire’s finger, and the house buzzed with excitement over the new engagement.

Grandma and Grandad came next — both enveloping him into the tightest (and longest) hug he’d ever had in recent history, probably seeking to break their record — and not very long after came Uncle George, Aunt Angelina, Freddie, and Roxanne. Roxanne immediately saddled up to James, though she first took a moment to gape at Monty, who was locked into conversation with Molly and Albus.

“What’s she doing here?” asked Roxanne.

“Her family got worse,” James said, as he watched Monty flick her waves over her shoulder. His heart fluttered slightly as he realized they were dressed somewhat similarly — her dress a cream sweater-y thing. “You can be nice to her for the day at least, yeah?”

Roxanne folded her arms and sighed, but otherwise relented. She looked over to where Lucy stood by the tree and picked at it with a deep frown. “Ugh,” Roxanne groaned. “And what’s her deal?”

James shrugged.

“Hell,” muttered Roxanne. “I’ll go deal with it — like I always do.”

He watched as Roxanne strolled over to talk to Lucy, flinging her arm over the shorter redhead and gabbing away instantaneously. Lucy’s expression did not change much (it never really did), but she seemed relatively receptive to her cousin’s company.

A shrill screech from Lily alerted the entire family of Hugo’s arrival — and Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron, and Rose’s, but whatever. The dynamic duo ran into a dramatic embrace, spinning in a circle like two soldiers who had been separated in wartime, but were reunited at last.

“They saw each other like four days ago,” Rose said to James, a stiffness to her voice. She, too, caught a glimpse of Monty, and her expression soured. “What’s she doing here?”

“There must be an echo in here or something,” James half-chuckled. “She had a rough time back home, so let’s just drop it, eh?”

Rose was not so easily swayed. “No way,” she protested. “I can’t stand her.”

In the center of the living room, Harry and Ron rambled animatedly. Ron’s arm hugged tightly around Harry’s shoulders. A few steps to their left, Hermione and Ginny handed their gifts to one another. Not one of them had a bitter disposition. They were a unified package.

“Fine,” James said to Rose, but his gaze was fixed solely on his family. “But then you’ll have to explain to them that you don’t talk to Albus anymore.”

Rose froze for a second, her eyes widening, and then she huffed. “You’re so fucking annoying,” she grumbled, and then she put on her happiest face and went to go hug Albus, Molly, and Monty.

It’s what they had been doing ever since Albus was first sorted into Slytherin. They’d avoid one another at school, but in front of the family, they pretended to still be the best of friends. It was sad, James thought, as they once had been the closest he’d ever thought two people could be, but now they were edging ever nearer to strangers.

But James didn’t have much time to dwell on it. It was time for breakfast.

Christmas breakfast was really rather more of brunch, if one wanted to get semantic about it. There was a myriad of food choices, spanning from overtly breakfast foods (eggs, toast, bacon, what have you) to… well whatever weird half-edible creation Uncle George had the cheek to force upon the family — this year it was something he was calling “George’s Pumpkin Praline Surprise,” and Uncle Ron had the misfortune of learning that the surprise was that there was no pumpkin or praline in the dish.

“Bloody hell, George!” Ron exclaimed. “The hell’s in this?”

George and Freddie were already doubled over laughing, and Roxanne spit out her tea back into the cup. “Surprise!” George responded.

Roxanne leaned into James’ side and whispered, “It’s liver and bull t— you know what? Never mind.”

“That’s evil,” replied James.

“I know,” Roxanne giggled. “It was my idea, too, but don’t tell Dad I told you that.”

“Montgomery, isn’t it?” asked Uncle Percy from a ways down the table over to Monty, and James had the horrible sneaking suspicion that he was going to say precisely the wrong thing. “American, is that correct?”

Monty laughed, awkwardly. “Uh,” she said, and she pulled a stray hair behind her ear. “Yes sir, that would be me.”

Percy hummed and pushed up his glasses. “Did you keep up with the MACUSA election?”

From the other end of the table, George said flatly, “Oh, good. Politics.”

All individual conversations that had broken out in pods around the table ceased. Monty shifted in her seat, aware that the eyes of every member of the Weasley extended family had their eyes on her, even if they had no idea what the conversation was about. “I did,” replied the brunette. “Not too thrilled about the outcome, if I’m being honest.”

“Are things really as bad as they say?” continued Percy, seemingly unfazed by the uneasy air in the room. Still, no one made any moves to stop him, everyone equally unsure of what else to fill the space with.

“Well, I know they’re not very good,” she said. “I mean, I wouldn’t be able to go back at all, I don’t think — muggle dad and all. They keep tabs on that stuff, so none of us can get magical educations there. Now there’s a spike in obscurials because of it, so there’s talk of rounding up muggleborns and halfboods with any muggle parentage.”

“What?” Rose chimed in, her mouth hanging open in shock. “They can’t do that. Why isn’t there anyone stopping them?”

Aunt Hermione put her hand on Rose’s forearm. “The people that try keep popping up mysteriously dead or missing,” said Hermione, and she shot a pointed look to Harry. “I’ve heard a lot about acts of terror from the Hodag’s supporters.” She looked to Monty. “Do you know if any of that’s true?”

Monty’s shoulders tensed up. If he hadn’t been paying close enough attention, James wouldn’t have noticed that there was a tremor in her hands. Even still, she maintained her composure and managed out a sweet smile, though her eyes carried a deep sorrow. “Yeah,” she said, softly. “My dad actually got caught in one a few years ago. That’s around when it really started to take off.”

If it was quiet before, it was dead now. The dark silence fell over the long kitchen table of the Potter House — not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse — and no one quite knew how to proceed with the conversation.

James knew Mr. Baird had died years before he met Monty, and that was the extent of it. He learned very soon into knowing her that the Montgomery-Bairds do not speak of the dead, and in the few times she ever did mention the deceased, it was fleeting and without detail. Naturally, he assumed that her dad had died from a muggle disease, as muggles do. It never once had crossed his mind that he’d been killed.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

The tremor in Monty’s hand had begun to take over the rest of the body. She was never one for silences, and most definitely not one for the uncomfortable ones. Worse was he knew that she was likely to assume blame for the nervous energy in the home, despite no one casting it.

Albus also appeared to have picked up on her anxiousness, as he cut through the silence. “How ‘bout we open presents?” Al suggested, perhaps a mere decibel too loud than necessary.

Monty sent him a grateful smile, and her shoulders relaxed. “Fun,” she added, for good measure.

No one objected, but rather all readily accepted a swift change in activity. Besides, Ron’s retching over “George’s Pumpkin Praline Surprise” effectively ruined the appetites of practically anyone in the entire country. 

The whole family clamored out of their chairs and gathered in a circle (more of a glob, for accuracy’s sake) around the ornamental Christmas tree — that is if you could manage to get a peak of the tree from behind the mound of presents. Really, everyone went a bit overboard with the whole “having children thing,” if you asked James.

Grandma Molly rushed around the group, doing her best to climb over her children and grandchildren and hand each of them their personalized sweaters. She kissed James on the forehead as she placed the wrapped box into his hands, “She’s cute,” she whispered. “No wonder you’ve been so well-behaved today,” and added a wink as she pulled away.

James felt his face flush a deep crimson, burning with heat. “Grandma, please,” he begged. She chuckled and put her finger up to her lips.

“What’s this ‘G’ doing here?” George called out, holding up his sweater in confusion.

Grandma hit him over the head with Roxanne’s box (Roxanne was reaching out for it, but never mind that). “You weren’t supposed to open it yet!”

“You don’t actually think I’m George, do you?” George continued and waved his ‘G’ sweater through the air like a flag. “It’s been — what — twenty-two years now? I thought you would have figured out the bit by now, Mum, honestly. I’ve only been pretending to be George because I thought you liked him more.

“Wouldn’t blame you either. He always was the handsomer one, rest his soul.”

“I’ll take the sweater back then,” retorted Grandma Molly as she finally handed Roxanne’s gift off to her.

George clutched the sweater to his chest. “You wouldn’t dare!”

On the couch, Monty sat alone as she looked onto the scene — a spectator to a family sport. Her pouty pink lips were set into a serene smile, the kind that would have looked natural if it weren’t for the deep-seated sadness that glistened in her amber eyes. 

The rest of the room was filled with familial activity: Roxanne and Freddie were wrestling, as they always ended up doing; Victoire, Teddy, Dominique, and Louis compared their gifts; Molly and Lucy were still bickering, but now in a more loving way; Lily and Hugo were setting up Wizard Chess as Rose presided; and the parents all gathered together in their own small pods. Yet, there Monty sat without a soul to speak to, and that simply would not fly within the sacred walls of the Potter House.

“Oi, Al,” James yell-whispered over to his little brother, who was trying to discreetly change into his new sweater. Albus turned in slight confusion, and James tilted his head in Monty’s direction.

Albus nodded in newfound understanding before dashing under the tree and grabbing a neatly wrapped package. Together, the Potter boys each took their place on the cushions adjacent to the Gryffindor girl, sandwiching her between them.

“Hope you didn’t think we forgot about you,” said Al as he set the gift on her lap.

Monty gasped. “Oh, no, you didn’t have to!”

“Well,” James said. “It’s a little too late for that. Go on, open it.”

James actually didn’t know what was in the package and was probably just as eager as the girl next to him to learn what was inside. Monty delicately unwrapped the gift, placing the discarded wrapping paper on James’ lap (is it bad that he felt honoured that she did that?). Sitting inside the box was a reddish-brown leather satchel book bag, perfectly new and quite unlike the misshapen, destroyed thing she lugged with her from class to class.

“Oh my,” Monty whispered, then covered her mouth with her palm. “This is beautiful.” She turned to Albus for a brief second and then to James. “Thank you so much. I’ve never gotten a gift like this before.”

James’ blush returned with a vengeance . “This one’s all Al,” he said, though he’d have loved nothing more than to continue to bask in the glow of her gratitude. “He’s great at this stuff.”

It was the nicest thing he’d said to or about his little brother in a long while, and James was a little ashamed of that. Albus’ head flicked up, a look of shock washing over his visage, and then a content smile replaced it, and at least for then, James thought they might be able to fix things.

* * *

Christmas with the whole family always ended around 4 o’clock, so that everyone could go visit their other half of their families. Rose and Hugo got to go have a muggle Christmas for the evening, and Victoire, Dominique, and Louis went to have whatever a French Christmas entailed.

As for the Potters, they went to the dungeons of Hogwarts — the Battle of Hogwarts Portrait Hall to be exact — to visit their other side of the family. Teddy and Andromeda often tagged along, as did George and the lot (before they went to Aunt Angelina’s family’s home for a later dinner). But every year, without fail, one Potter was infallibly absent: James Sirius Potter, or James Potter the Second depending on persuasion.

He’d spent nearly every weekend this past term hesitating at the entrance of the portrait hall, trying to will himself through, so that this one night he would not have to be a coward to his family. James told himself this would be the year that it was different. This was to be the year he’d stroll in there and face them. Then, when his father asked if he wanted to go, he couldn’t get the word “yes” to pass through his lips.

So every year, without fail, James found himself loitering out by the grass in his yard — which one of his ancestors had transformed into a Quidditch pitch at some point in the home’s history — alone and ashamed of what he could not do. It was the part of Christmas he dreaded, the overwhelming self-loathing over the fact that he was never going to be the person the world expected him to be.

A light fall of snow sprinkled down from the indigo sky; it was a touch darker than James had been expecting, so he lit a couple of lanterns for a soft glow of yellow light. Mum or Dad must have enchanted the pitch in anticipation of the evening, as it was quite warm despite the icy petals falling onto the fresh grass. It smelled distinctly of winter — a crossbreed of infinitely cold and heavenly warmth, not quite the smell of rain, but not quite the smell of a well-tended fire.

He sat sort of sidesaddle on his father’s broom, barely even a foot off the ground, staring blankly at the back of the house and allowing for his sight to unfocus. James tried to wipe his brain clean of thought and attempted to avoid the lurching feeling of shame that always built up in his core like clockwork on Christmas evenings.

Then, “Oh, Christ!” came Monty’s startled cry. She sucked in two rugged breaths ( _ Bloody hell...)  _ and placed her hand over her heart. “I didn’t think anyone was out here.”

Monty had changed out of the dress she’d worn earlier in the day, and was now wearing her old Quidditch team sweater and a pair of black tight pants (muggle clothes, James assumed). She sat on the edge of the black steel bench that straddled the border of pavement and grass, and she began to pull her thick hair up into a ponytail with her puffy gold hair tie — which James knew to be her “lucky” hair tie, but that was not the point.

His eyebrows flicked up his forehead. “Wait a minute,” he said, “You’re out here to play.”

She scowled at him as she finished tying her hair with a quick flip of her wrist. It was the movement of a true Charms proficient. “I was wandering, Potter,” retorted Monty. “Aren’t you supposed to be visiting your dad’s parents, anyway?”

Yes, yes he was, but he was a dirty, stupid, filthy little coward. “I, uh…” James scratched at his eyebrow and avoided her eyeline. “I don’t go. Haven’t since I was little.”

“Why not?”

Merlin, he did not want to have this conversation. What would she think of him? She already liked that stupid Slytherin bloke more than him. Imagine how she’d regard him now that she knew that James was nothing more than a weak imitation of his legendary lineage. 

And then he remembered that it was exactly what she already thought of him.  _ Every achievement you have, every interesting bit of information there is floating around these halls is all because of your family… You’re just a half-baked attempt at a Gryffindor.  _ That was why she liked that haughty, pompous wanker Nadim Bahri more than him. James was a pretender on the throne of the Potter mantle.

So there was only one way to rectify it. “Full disclosure,” said James. “I’m afraid to face them  — my grandparents, Sirius, Teddy’s parents, the like. I don’t want them to look at me all disappointed, because let’s face it, I’m never going to live up to them. It’s like you said, I’m ‘just a half-baked attempt at a Gryffindor,’ yeah?

“Everyone expects me to make something of myself, but how can I do that? There’s no war or anything. They all fought and sacrificed everything, and I’m… I dunno, nothing, I guess.”

“Yeah,” said Monty. She rose up from the metal bench and moved closer onto the pitch. “But think of it this way: If you were still fighting the same fight your grandparents and parents fought, then their sacrifices would have been for nothing. We’re living the life they killed and died for, right?” She stood next to him, and her wavy ponytail swayed and shone in the lantern light.

“We’re like their reward, I guess,” Monty continued. “We get to grow up normal because of them, and it’s honouring them by just living our lives.”

A bit of the heaviness lifted from his heart, and it made sense. “What about you?” asked James. “With your dad, I mean.”

Her brow knitted together, and James thought she might lash out or flee. Instead, she sat on the snow covered grass and leaned up to look towards the cloud shrouded sky. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” she said, though her voice was hushed and huskier. “My mom told me it was the right thing, you know? ‘Montgomerys don’t talk about the dead,’ but it wasn’t until they tried to take the ‘Baird’ away from me that I kind of realized I’m not a Montgomery at all, really.

“It’s disrespectful, isn’t it? Not talking about my dad. You know, he was really funny, and I think he was the only one that really liked me. Mom always thought I was obnoxious and obstinate, but Dad thought I was perfect. I’ve always been more like him, anyway.

“But uh,” she sucked in a shaky breath, and in the faint glow of the lanterns, unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. “Well, we were supposed to move back to Augurbury when I was about six, but my Aunt Jen got really sick. Her husband had left earlier in the year, so my dad had us stay so he could take care of her and my cousins. Mom didn’t like that very much, of course, but she let it go.

“A while later, she was pregnant with my sister, and late into it, something went wrong — I don’t really know what because I was only eight — and they didn’t have time to get to St. Mungo’s. I don’t know if you know this, but muggles aren’t allowed in wizard hospitals in America, even if they’re the parent of a magical child. My dad didn’t think that was fair, and he wasn’t the type to just let that kind of thing go, so he was arguing with the desk lady of the hospital and demanding that they let him in to be with his wife and baby, and the receptionist was going to let him — she didn’t think the rule was fair, either.

“But there was a man who hated muggles, and he didn’t really like that my dad was there. So he set off a Blasting curse… and I’m sure you can piece together the rest.”

“I didn’t know you have a sister,” he said, and he felt that his voice felt uncomfortably limp.

Monty grimaced. “I don’t.”

James blinked, and all he could manage out was, “Oh hell.”

She turned her head toward him and let out a sort of chuckle-scoff hybrid, accompanied by a confused looking smile. “Agreed,” she said. “But to answer your question, I try to honour my dad in little ways, I suppose. Obviously, I’m keeping my name, but I stick with the American accent — which is hard to do when I haven’t heard another one in well over a year — because it reminds me of him. I try to do things the way he’d do them. Radical acceptance, courage, standing up for the right thing, stuff like that.”

“And the temper?” quipped James.

Monty laughed, and she rolled over to gather a little ball of snow from the grass. “Screw you,” she said, all in good nature. She half-heartedly lobbed the ball into his shoulder. “You know I get that from the head bitch.”

James hopped off the side of his broom with ease, laying down on the grass next to her. The clouds had a small clearance, showing a sliver of constellations twinkling in the deep sky. “We’re all kind of fucked up,” he whispered. “Aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But if it helps any, there’ll probably be an American Wizarding War soon. You can test your bravery out there. You’ll probably get blown to bits, though. Lousy fighter.”

A breeze blew a strand of hair onto Monty’s face, falling gracefully on the side of her glasses. She lay there, arms folded behind her head like a cushion, and staring aimlessly into the swirling clouds. The freckles across her face made their own constellations, and James decided he much preferred those to the pretenders up in deep space. 

She was something remarkable, he thought. How someone who went through all of that as a young child turned out to be so playful and jubilant was a mystery for the ages, and one that James was more than content to devote his existence to solving.

Without warning, she sprang up to her feet. “So how about a one v. one?” She nodded at the abandoned broom on the ground next to him. “I bet I can still kick your ass.”

“In your dreams, Baird,” he retorted.

For the first Christmas night in James’ life, he was not alone. James Potter was not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, my friends! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this one. I'll admit that I have no idea how large family gatherings work as my family is teeny tiny, so I tried my best. Thank you for reading. You all are my gift... but if you wanna give me an extra special gift, I wouldn't be sad about unwrapping some kudos and comments. (I'm done being cringy now.)


	16. The Unrequited Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysander Scamander doesn't want anything to do with this. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the alternate version of 2020 where covid doesn't exist, but witches and wizards do! Please enjoy a little mini chapter!

Historically speaking, the new year meant a whole new set of reasons for why James Potter was being an incomparable prat. Lysander loved the poor bastard dearly, do not be mistaken, but Merlin, they could not stand another minute of—

“We’re not on the train two seconds before she galivants off to stupid Nadim Bahri!” cried James. It was well into the first week of term by this point.

For Lysander, the bottom of the Great Lake wasn’t sounding all too terrible. It had a good view after all, looking into the Slytherin common room and what have you. Anything was preferable to day six, hour three, and minute forty-two (and a half) — not that Lysander was keeping track or anything — of James Potter’s miraculous failing pursuit of one Miss Montgomery Baird.

“What does she see in him?” James continued on his rant. 

Roxanne finally had enough of it, and threw her empty inkwell at James’ head. Ever the Beater, however, James swatted it away with relevant ease before it had the chance to make contact with his temple. “You’re running in bloody circles,” groaned Roxanne, and she looked to Lysander. “How have you not killed him already?”

“I could say the same for you,” replied Lysander, who did not look up from their copy of _The Quibbler_. Still, they supposed it wasn’t an unfair question — how had they not smothered their darling best friend with his own pillow at night? The answer was all rather simple (or at least so Lysander thought) it was because Lysander Scamander was a fucking hipocrite. 

No one was the wiser of it, of course, but Lysander was bemoaning their fate incessantly since they received the most tragic news on the Hogwarts Express: Archie Wright had a crush on someone else, and what’s worse, on a girl. 

They should have expected it. Who didn’t have a crush on Sade Agrinya? All Lysander could do now was bitch and whine about in their head and outwardly appear perfectly unaffected.

_Hell._

The Gryffindor common room was dead, not a soul in sight other than the three of them. It made sense for James and Lysander to be holed up there on the first Saturday of term, even though it was uncharacteristically sunny and warm out for early January. The pair were two unrequited lovers scorned, unable to find peace within themselves, but Roxanne was different.

Roxanne was one of the most popular girls in their year (in the whole school, even), and not without merit. She was bright, funny, talented, and most of all rather pretty. Theoretically, she had her pick of the litter to be spending her Saturday with, but instead she was wasting her weekend afternoon with her heartsick cousin and… whatever Lysander was at this very moment.

“Where’s Greer?” Lysander asked, though it was more a desperate attempt to silence James than genuine interest. Selfish, maybe, but necessary nevertheless.

Roxanne averted her gaze, looking suddenly out the bay window out at the green outdoors. She all but covered her ears and made the “lala” sound, staunchly ignoring Lysander and pretending like she hadn’t heard a peep.

Her cropped curls had noticeably grown out since they last saw her at the end of term, now a bouncy cloud framing her skull. In fact, much about her appearance had changed in the past few weeks. When not in uniform, she was wearing cropped sweaters and skirts, instead of her usual oversized flannels and jeans. Her makeup included more pinks, and her eyelashes appeared to be twice as long and thick. She looked both familiar and entirely unlike herself.

Lysander’s eyebrows wove together, and they asked again, “Roxanne, where is Greer?”

She looked down to avoid eye contact — light pink eyeshadow glimmering from the sliver of sunlight beaming through the bay window — and scratched at the nape of her neck. “We’re, uh…” she trailed off for a moment. “We’re not speaking, presently.”

This must have caught James’ attention enough for him to sit up from his slumped position on the nearby couch. “What?” he asked. “Why?”

“Well,” she said in a high pitched ring. “The day after Christmas, she sort of… owled me a love letter.”

Lysander choked on their own breath. “She what?” they sputtered. “Quite ballsy of her, but about time. But what’d you say back?”

She looked back out the window, staring out at the groups of students playing around on the grounds below Gryffindor Tower, and she did not respond.

“You never replied,” said James, dripping with reproach, “did you?”

“What was I supposed to say to that?”

Lysander scowled. “How you feel would’ve been a start.”

Roxanne shuffled back to face the window and leaned onto the windowsill, looking morose as could be. “I don’t know how I feel,” she mumbled. ( _Bullshit, everyone knows)._ “And besides, she’s been hanging around Sade all week. Seeker for Seeker, I guess.”

It was always Sade at the end of the day, wasn’t it? You couldn’t walk from one end of the castle to the other without hearing a word about Sade Agrinya. In every nook and cranny there was something about “Did you see Sade changed her hairstyle? Quite lovely!” or “I heard so-and-so fancies Sade Agrinya.” First, she took Archie, and now she took Greer.

And they couldn’t even truly be mad about it because she was so damned nice. She was like a Bertie Botts bag where none of the flavours are odd — not what you want it to be, but still too sweet to complain about. Moreso, she worked with Lysander. She was their friend. It just would have been easier if she were a colossal bitch.

“Who doesn’t fancy Sade at this school, anyway?” Lysander said, bitterly, though they felt guilty even saying it. It certainly wasn’t her fault she had all the looks and charisma to knock out all of Britain.

“Us three, apparently,” replied Roxanne.

James returned to laying on his back and gazing miserably up at the ceiling. Two weeks of unimpeded Monty Baird time had spoiled him good and rotten, and just as well, he’d been tossed away by her as such. “And stupid Nadim Bahri.”

Though that wasn’t entirely the case as reported by Kieran Gaiety and his hoards of gossipers. “He did last year,” corrected Lysander.

Which proved to be a grave error in judgement, and in hindsight, Lysander wished they had been a touch more mindful with their words. James rolled over onto his side, propping up his head on bent arm, and behind his eyes, Lysander could see the gears turning.

James was not always the quickest — in fact, most of his mistakes came when he was too impulsive — so anything that came out of James’ mouth had the potential to be lethal. Instead, a foxish grin spread across his lips, and he said, “Is that so?” Then, he returned back to staring at the ceiling, with the sly smile sitting gladly on his face.

And Lysander knew that was worse. “I don’t like that look.”

Roxanne pushed herself up off her seat by the window and sat at James’ feet, her eyes glinting with a similar wildness to her cousin’s. “I do,” she said. “What’re you thinking?”

They were an untameable pair in large — the Weasley-Potter cousins — each maintaining a level of absurdity of which Lysander got too winded to catch up. It had been in all of Hogwarts’ best interest that the Weasley-Potter-Scamander trio had halted their hijinks, as they were capable of practically cosmic damage. But even two would be enough to really gum things up.

James popped up into an upright position, drumming his finger against his leg and tapping his foot. The light from the window hit just behind his glasses putting the fingerprints and other such dirt on full display. “Well,” he started, “if Lysander is to be believed—”

“I’d take it with a grain of salt,” Lysander interrupted. “It came from Kieran Gaiety, so…”

James rolled his eyes and continued, “If _Kieran Gaiety_ is to be believed, then, we can kill two bats with one curse. Think about it!” (Lysander did not want to think about it.) “We can sic Nadim after Sade, and vice versa. Then, boom! We all get what we want!”

“Except Monty and Archie and Greer,” said Lysander. “Nothing says ‘choose me’ like sabotaging their relationships.”

“We’re not sabotaging anything,” Roxanne said. She widened her deep brown eyes in faux innocence. “We’re only expediting the inevitable heartbreak before things go too far and cause irreparable damage. It’s a little thing called chivalry, Sander.”

Mental, the two of them. “So you’re saying they're too weak to help themselves?” 

“Not weak, no,” said James, quite unconvincingly. “Just blinded by infatuation. Their judgement is obstructed, especially Greer and Archie’s — Monty’s got a brilliant mind to her, so she’s fine — but I’m really doing this for the former two. They’re shooting too high above their station.”

Archie Wright shooting too high? Not bloody likely. Archie was a god descended from the highest celestial point sent down to bless the sad, pitiful mortal realm with his beauty and vibrancy. Archie Wright could get anyone he could ever dream of… only he didn’t dream of Lysander. He dreamt of Sade Agrinya.

But if there was a way to otherwise engage Sade’s thoughts, would that be so bad?

The idea was almost tempting — forbidden fruit — but the Lysander had long since dipped into the reasonable. “No,” they said, firmly. “No way. I’m not quite mad enough to pull off something like that.”

The cousins shared a skeptical glance. They always had the uncanny ability to speak without saying anything at all, like the kind of connection that was meant to be shared between twins. (The kind of connection Lysander never had with their own twin.)

The crackling off the fireplace filled the empty air, and on the other side of the room, the window was cracked open enough where the faint sound of student chatter on the grounds could be heard. Then, Roxanne said, “We don’t like doing these things without you.”

James nodded in agreement, and Lysander knew why. In these dynamics, Roxanne was the designer, James the executioner, and Lysander acted as the jury and judge. Their system worked as a well-enchanted machine, and without one of the parts, the whole system was liable for collapse (see: James and Rose’s mosquito quill).

Yet, that was exactly what Lysander was banking on. Without their consent and participation, whatever harebrained scheme James had half-cooked up was going to go un-performed.

So Lysander replied, “Then don’t do it.”

* * *

Coming out was a long and arduous process, and from what they’d heard over the years, it never really ended. The rest of their days were doomed to be spent saying, “Oh, it’s actually not ‘he.’ I go by ‘they,’” which was predestined to be met with varying levels of success.

They just wanted it over and done with, one fell swoop et voilà everyone knows what to call them. Perhaps, they could come up with a new spell that automatically corrects pronouns on the tongue of the person you’re speaking to, but spellmaking was more in Lorcan’s wheelhouse. (And Lorcan’s wheelhouse was leagues away from wherever Lysander was.)

However, it was not without note that winter holiday had gone better than Lysander had expected — on the coming out front. Mum and Dad were excited for them, which they anticipated to a degree, but didn’t make it a bigger deal than necessary.

There was no party thrown or banners hung like Lysander had originally feared. They didn’t want to be praised or celebrated simply for existing. Luna and Rolf Scamander did end up sending letters to their entire known contacts list informing of the change — to which, Great Grandad Newt replied with a detailed biography of every known magical species that lacks a gender binary. It was actually a pretty good read, in Lysander’s opinion.

That was small scale, though, just the family (and it isn’t a very large family). Lysander had to come up with something to get it all out of the way and quick, as they were growing exceedingly sick of hearing the word “he” attached to any iteration of their existence. Yes, something had to be done about it, but they hadn’t any clue how.

“Why don’t you do a big operatic number at dinner?” suggested James, rather unhelpfully. “I’m more than willing to do a little dance number in the background for support.”

The weather had maintained it’s lovely tickle of warmth — a sweet suggestion of the spring months ahead, but that would soon be covered in mounds of snow once again in the upcoming days. For now, the student population of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry could enjoy their Sunday afternoon in the soft glow of sunlight.

James and Lysander decided at the conclusion of breakfast that their pity party would be best served on Lysander’s favorite picnic blanket offshore of the Great Lake. Neither of them had ever been particularly serious children to begin with, but even they could admit that they had been skipping out on the more fun aspects of their young age.

After all, James was only a few weeks out from sixteen, and Lysander was only two more months behind. Surely, sixteen would bring significant changes to their maturity — even more so than fifteen had. That’s why all those adventure novels Lysander had read were always about sixteen-year-olds.

So time was of the essence, and it was time to get all their childish bullshitery out of their systems.

“Why do you always suggest a literal song and dance?” asked Lysander while staring out at the group of other fifth years — of varying houses — giggling and chasing each other around like children. Within that group, Sade Agrinya clung from a place atop Archie Wright’s shoulders, fighting to push Monty off of Nadim’s.

Lysander sniffed, and reverted their gaze back to James, who was watching the distant scene with a melted crestfallen frown. In fifteen — almost sixteen — years of friendship, Lysander had never once imagined the pair of them turning into miserable mopes, and as much as they would like to stay uninvolved, an itching feeling in their brain made them question whether it was time to intervene.

Perhaps intervention and coming out had the possibility of running concurrently, but either way, Lysander had to be out and quickly. Ridiculous as it was (and it was bloody loony in their opinion), Lysander was beginning to lean towards a massive musical, like the kind Auntie Queenie would take Lorcan and them to as children. There were only two issues.

The first issue was that Lysander was an abominable singer — could not hold a tune if their life depended on it. If it came down to singing a Celestina Warbeck on key or getting a killing curse hurled straight at them, Lysander Scamander would be taking up their final resting place.

The second — and arguably more sizable — reason that there had never been a Scamander-Potter Spectacular One Night Only Musical Hit was because Lysander had practically fatal stage fright. Even the idea of playing Quidditch to a crowd was enough to keep them off a pitch for their sworn lifetime.

And so, their hopes of a cut, clear, and concise coming out were dwindling by the millisecond. 

Until (somehow), James S. Potter finally had a decently playable idea of his own. “Maybe you should just tell Kieran Gaiety,” he said, turning away from their peers’ atrocious display of comradery and romance. “About being nonbinary, I mean. He’d spread it like fiendfyre. Everyone would know about it by the end of… dinner, probably.”

It was so stupid that it could work. “Isn’t that a coward’s way out, though?” Lysander replied, warily. If there was one thing they couldn’t stomach, it was being a coward. _If that isn’t irony staring you in the face._

James hummed and rubbed his sparsely stubbled chin. Like his father, he was trying to grow out a beard — claimed it’d make him more mature. “Perhaps,” he said. His eyes rolled up to the cloudless sky, above the rim of his glasses. “But does everything we do have to confirm our right to be in Gryffindor? Is it not enough to simply be as we are? People of our own volition.”

It hung awkwardly in dead, tepid air.

“You alright, mate?”

James groaned and put his head on his knees. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? Clearly not!” He sat up straight and stretched his legs out from his chest, and he leaned back on his arms. He returned to observing the scene across the shore of the lake.

For maybe the first time in their lives, Lysander and James were in precisely the same predicament. In a moment of unadulterated honesty, Lysander would be capable of admitting that they’d always felt second to James. He was, after all, the Chosen One’s first born son, classically handsome, and effortlessly charming. James was a natural proficient at almost everything he did, and every direction he turned, success appeared to follow.

Lysander was the sidekick, second-in-command, chief mate. They didn’t resent that, but it was always a simple truth of their friendship.

Yet, as they both watched the people they wanted most cling to the arms of another, they were equals. And perhaps, maybe they did resent James ever the slightest bit for it taking this long.

The Gryffindor friends sat in doleful silence and felt the wetness of the grass begin to seep through the thick layers of black quilted blanket. In the distance, Archie ducked his head down in giddy shyness as Sade playfully leaned her head on his shoulder — a fleeting moment, but enough to spoil the contents of Lysander’s stomach.

Sade could have anyone in the whole school. Why did she have to go and take him? Were Natalia, Calvin, that seventh year bloke Orin from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, et al. not enough for her? Lysander was fairly sure that even Lorcan had set his sights on her at least once before. All the people in Hogwarts, and she was leaning her head on the shoulder of the one man Lysander fancied. It wasn’t fair.

Was Lysander not pretty enough, or handsome enough, or clever enough? Was it that they didn’t play Quidditch very well, or that they were too tall or lanky? Were their eyes too blue — cold and unfeeling — or that their skin looked like it ran out of juice somewhere along the way?

The sun was turning colder above them as passing clouds covered its rays, hidden away in short bursts. Behind them, a family of fairies fluttered in a circular flurry and buzzed about in what appeared to be exuberance. 

Nadim leaned down to kiss Monty on the cheek, to which the bespeckled girl did not shy away, and James heaved out a guttural noise. His skin looked almost grey — nothing at all like the stunning golden glow Lysander had secretly been so envious of — and his eyes looked hollow. “Is it the coward’s way out to do nothing?” James said.

If Lysander were to teach a course at Hogwarts entitled “James 101,” the first lesson would be about how James was a massive whiner, but this… this seemed to be a whole new level of grief. Normally (and it sounds monstrous of them, but hear them out), Lysander would turn their attentions elsewhere whenever James got stuck in a rut. He pulled himself out of it in good time, and in cases past, Lysander’s involvement with James’ affairs of the heart had always gone haywire.

And that’s all it was — a devotion to their best friend. There was nothing self-serving about it whatsoever. “You and Roxanne do have a plan, though,” they said. “Don’t you?”

James raised a quizzical brow. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” though they probably should have been. “I just think if we do it with minimal damage and never — I mean ever — tell a soul what we did, then there isn’t too much harm in it. Is there?”

James’ black curls flopped about at the velocity in which he shook his head. 

“So what’s the plan then, Jamesie?”

The plan was bad. There was no way around that. It went as follows: James, being the Potions whiz, was going to butter up Slughorn by asking for special lessons. Obviously, Slughorn would agree, and James would ask to get a head start on some sixth year potions, specifically Felix Felicis. (“Why Felix Felicis first, you ask?” said James. “I answer!”) He would drink the Felix Felicis to then convince Slughorn to teach him Amortentia, which would be given to Sade and Nadim in pastry form. Then, he’d brew enough Felix Felicis for the three of them, and they would all ask out their prospective dates.

“That’s…” Lysander trailed off, trying to think of anything that would be kinder than ‘you’re an idiot, James.’

“Brilliant? Spectacular? Award worthy?”

Lysander bit their lip and grimaced. “I was going to go with convoluted, but if you’re going to have a big head about it,” they said, “it’s worse than the singing and the dancing.

“I already told you I’m not doing anything that would cause harm.”

“What’s causing harm?” asked James.

“Using magic on someone without permission is harm, James.”

He clicked his tongue idly as he ruminated on their point. This was exactly the reason Lysander decided to hop back onto the whole scheme, anyway; James never really considered the severity of his actions. If it weren’t for Lysander’s intervention, James and Roxanne would have committed several crimes that would have resulted in their expulsion — minimum. If nothing else, Sade, Nadim, Archie, and the lot had Lysander alone to thank for saving them from a worse situation.

Getting involved was the smart thing to do — the merciful thing to do. Lysander was doing something good.

“See this is why we need you,” James said and jovially patted them on the shoulder. “So what do you propose? ‘Cause Rox thought the Amortentia was quite good.”

As previously noted, Roxanne Weasley was a chic designer of plots and pranks, but she was a connoisseur of the elaborate, not the practical.

Back across the lake shore, Monty and Sade had regained their positions atop the shoulder of Nadim and Archie, respectively, and prepared for a new round of cockatrice. Lysander watched on in near mourning as Monty and Sade tried to knock each other off with a well-timed _Flipendo_. (Frankly, it didn’t seem much fun, as Monty appeared near impossible to beat in a duel).

A shiver ran down Lysander’s spine, and for a moment they felt an all consuming shame darken their vision. These were good people — their friends — but imagining Archie’s arms around Sade, kissing her, loving her, and the shame was swiftly replaced by a green terror, a sickness.

“Write this down, James. This is what we’re going to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be more Lysander chapters! Wahoo! As I always say, I'd love comments, kudos, bookmarks, subs, and your continued readership. Thank you all for coming this far. Happy New Year!!!


	17. Thirty-Two Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty comes face to face with a not-so-sweet sixteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And technically, happy seventeenth birthday to Monty Baird.

Every year for the past four years, Monty Baird spent the week of her birthday planning an elaborate birthday party alongside her best friends. However, the party was never for herself. From the day she was born, she was used to being overshadowed by the prominent birthday that came the day before, and it did not bother her. In fact, she preferred it. 

At 5:08 in the morning on the 25th of January, 2004, the second child of William and Araminta Baird was born — a dark-haired baby girl with a nose like her mother’s. No one much cared, though, as at that very same hospital roughly eight hours prior, the first son of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley was born.

Instead of being bitter about her “special day” consistently being eclipsed by the most famous boy of all wizardkind, Monty embraced it. It had been confusing and overwhelming for the Gryffindors to celebrate two consecutive birthdays, anyway, so she was happy to plan one big gathering for one of her dearest friends. Besides, it wasn’t like her family ever went out of their way to celebrate with her.

However, this year was different on several accounts. The first was that it was her sixteenth birthday, which she was fairly certain was a high holy holiday for her fellow Americans. In American muggle culture, they celebrated “Sweet Sixteens” as the ultimate coming of age. It was the day she was meant to become an adult, and she’d really rather not share it with James.

The second account was that planning a birthday party for her kind-of-crush was dangerous territory. Spending two weeks in the Potter House, surrounded by the Potter family’s love, affection, and attention, had solidified her resolve to distance herself as much as possible from James. As soon as they stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express, she decided to be wholly devoted to Nadim — feelings for James be damned. If she threw a party for him, what message would that be sending?

The third (and mostly final) account, was that her planner-in-crime was no longer her best friend. Monty had already felt dirty planning and executing Natalia’s Hanukkah party without Greer, but she would never feel comfortable planning James’ annual party without her.

So for the first time in recent Hogwarts history, there was to be no James Potter birthday party, or at least not one she hosted. 

As to what she would actually spend her “Sweet Sixteen” doing… well, she hadn’t quite gotten that far, but she’d come up with something eventually. There wasn’t enough time on the clock for her to think too much about it.

Monty hadn’t taken into account that even the first month of second term would see her drowning in work already. Usually, the first few weeks of term were mindless review periods — something Monty could practically sleep through and miss nothing of interest or importance — but this year, you couldn’t take two steps without hearing about O.W.L. prep.

By Monday of her birthday week, Monty already had a Charms review examination, essays in both Transfiguration and Astronomy, and a near breakdown over the thought of the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical. On top of that, she had been moved up to the alto section leader in Frog Choir, had double rounds two nights in a row, and had increased her private lessons with Flitwick to three days a week.

She’d gone practically brain dead by Wednesday — choosing instead to mindlessly scribble nonsense onto the margins of her Potions textbook and try her best to ignore her pounding headache.

“You don’t think you’re overdoing it a little?” Natalia asked her. They were working on the Potions homework in the Prefect Office together. Nadim was meant to be there to help them, but was apparently too busy to even show up. “You look like you’re one eye twitch away from completely losing it.”

Perhaps she had overestimated her ability to juggle her priorities the smallest bit, but that did not mean she had any intention of stopping now. If that meant begging the house elves to start brewing iced coffee at every which hour of the day, so be it. The constant tremors in her hands only meant she was fueled up and ready to make O.W.L.s her bitch.

Sure, she’d only had about two hours of uninterrupted sleep for the past week, and her hair was a fuzzy, puffy mess, but she was peachy keen nonetheless.

“Merlin, Monty,” said Natalia, her eyes wide with concern. “You’re taking a break right now.” Though, neither of them had gotten much work done in the past hour at least.

In their lull of conversation, Lee Jordan’s radio news bulletin clashed against the heavenly sounds of Harry Styles’ latest record. Natalia had gotten it for her birthday over winter holiday, having asked specifically for it in record form so that they could listen to it together.

(“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was your birthday!” Monty had exclaimed on the Hogwarts Express. “I would have done something!”

“It’s all well and good,” was Natalia’s nonchalant reply. “I just imagined the Hanukkah party was something of an early birthday celebration.”)

While Monty was stressed, Natalia was sullen. The news of Archie Wright’s romantic interest in Sade had blazed through the Hogwarts gossip circuit from compartment to compartment during the train ride back to school. As far as Monty was aware, Sade appeared to reciprocate those feelings for Archie, as they had spent many a free moment together since. 

This left Monty in somewhat of a bind as far as loyalties went. Either she could stand by Natalia, or she could stand by Sade — or she could ignore the problem and carry on with business as usual. It was difficult, to be sure, as Natalia needed a shoulder to cry on and Nadim often insisted on double dates at lunchtime.

The pair packed their work into their bags and moved from the wooden table over to the brown velveteen couch. Natalia settled next to the radio, and Monty sat nearest the record player. Together, they slumped back into their seats and let out a unison sigh.

“Is sixteen supposed to suck this much?” asked Natalia, and she ran a hand through the top of her loose brown curls.

Monty shrugged and scrunched up her nose, pushing her glasses up her face in doing so. “I’ll let you know when I get there,” she said. “But I’m starting to think ‘yes.’”

Natalia’s almond-shaped blue eyes looked sunken into her skull — hollowed out and skeletal — and her eyebrows were beginning to look like they were naturally stuck together. In a moment of unimaginable irony, the next track on the record began — “To Be So Lonely” — and Natalia’s entire face contorted into an unnatural position.

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” suggested Monty, who really didn’t have the energy to continue wallowing.

The Ravenclaw nodded sharply and painted on a fake smile. “I’ve actually been meaning to ask about your holiday with the Potters… one Potter specifically.”

“Oh, Harry?” Monty said, though the suspicious nature of her tone was not lost on her. “Great man. Even better than they make him out to be, really. He’s pretty funny, too, and I think I might have complained enough about Defense that Bones could get the boot. Can you imagine having Harry Potter as our Defense professor? Awesome, right?”

Natalia stared at her, flat and unamused. Her lips were pursed together as she drummed her fingers against her cheek. “I knew it,” she said.

“Knew what?”

“You totally have a thing for James Potter,” said Natalia. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and held her chin up in the air — prematurely victorious. “You can’t go a whole conversation without slipping him in there somehow.”

Monty scoffed, but the beating of her heart doubled in speed. “You’re the one who brought him up,” she replied and turned up her nose. “Besides — and I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it — I’m sort of dating someone.”

“Right,” Natalia said, her voice oozing with sarcasm. “I’ve never heard of someone dating somebody and still having feelings for anyone else.”

_ Merlin’s beard, she’s good.  _ Or maybe Monty was just terrible at hiding it, and everyone knew that James made her stomach do little tosses and turns — a whole damn ballet routine — every time he got too close. Maybe everyone was just sitting back at their own leisure to watch her make a complete ass out of herself for being unable to stop pining after the bastard.

But, no, she hadn’t had the butterflies in her stomach for weeks, not since she stopped talking to James at school. Whenever he so much as looked her way, she made a point to turn back around. She chose Nadim, plain and simple, and that meant she had no feelings for anyone else. That was how it worked.

Monty opened her mouth to shoot back a snarky retort, but caught a melancholy gleam in Natalia’s azure eyes. She quickly snapped her mouth shut and instead opted for a playful eye roll and half-hearted chuckle. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” she joked. 

Before Natalia could press the topic further, the radio broadcast of Lee Jordan’s news show caught Monty’s attention. “After his second inauguration Tuesday night,” Jordan’s voice crackled through the old speaker, “President Ernest Wurtlebee announced that the Magical Congress of the United States of America — MACUSA — will no longer be recognizing the authorities of both the Spanish Parliament of Magic and Magical Republic of Turkey. This announcement follows the passing of new muggle and muggleborn protection legislation in both governments earlier this month.”

Natalia switched the dial off, exhaling sharply, but she said nothing. She looked over to Monty and smiled tightly. They sat together in tight silence, with only the soft popping of the record player that had finished its track. Natalia’s gaze was steely and intense under the thin veil of her pleasant smile, and yet it managed to bring some semblance of comfort to Monty. Natalia understood; she knew.

* * *

She never thought she’d say it, but Monty was excited for rounds Thursday night. Nadim had been… well, anywhere she was not all week. (She didn’t really know where he was off to half the time.) But Thursday night rounds were going to be perfectly uninterrupted Nadim and Monty time, with no intermission for any Potter related thoughts to weasel their way into her head.

When ten rolled around, Monty gleefully pranced out of Gryffindor Tower in her favorite plaid skirt and black turtleneck, with her hair straightened and pulled out of her face by a headband (the way Nadim had so often told her he liked). Faux-spring had ended a few days prior, and the snow had returned to take claim over the grounds of Hogwarts, making the halls icy with its chill. Monty was not dressed for the occasion; her legs were bare, and the cotton of her turtleneck was not thick enough to keep the cold at bay, but that was entirely by design. Nadim always lent her his peacoat as they stalked the corridors side by side, and it was a public display of her decision that she was entirely his.

Still, him being busy every free moment outside of classes this past week was not helping to solidify her decision. It was growing increasingly more difficult to dodge interactions with James — weaving through crowds of her peers to lose him and heading for the proverbial goalpost. Just this morning, James had tried to catch her at breakfast, saying something about practicing Chaser plays and wanting her feedback on them. That would have been easier avoided if Nadim hadn’t traipsed off with Sade the moment the meal ended — whatever that was about.

But never mind that, they had rounds to catch up on the time missed. She had a particular skip in her step, projecting her faster down the corridors than her normal speed (and she walked quite fast, if she said so herself). The chill in the halls blew her straight brown locks away behind her body, billowing rather much like a cape, and she rounded the corner to face— 

Calvin MacPherson was just about the last person she expected to be waiting in front of the Prefect Office door. The sleeves of his orange cable knit sweater ended a few inches above his wrists, and his pants rode up as if he were anticipating a flood. He waved enthusiastically as his blueish-greenish(-brownish?) eyes caught onto her. “Evening, Monty Baird!” Calvin exclaimed. “Er, or is it Monty… Montgomery now? Heard a rumour about a name change.”

The ends of her headband began to dig into her skull. “Oh,” she said, dumbfounded. “Uh… oh, no, my brothers did the whole name change thing, not me.”

Calvin flicked his head — his mousy hair flopping over his eye — down the opposite direction of the corridor. “Shall we?” he asked with a polite smile.

Monty scratched at the nape of her neck and looked around the illuminated area of the hall, and then she relented. The started down the usual pathway in silence, save for Calvin’s happy humming of what seemed to be a very off-key rendition of Worty Greenbolt’s latest single “Pixie Problems.” Monty stared ahead at the glum grey stone ahead of her and realized (rather uncomfortably) that she had never once spent time with Calvin alone.

“So,” she started, though her voice cracked a bit, “you’re a Worty Greenbolt fan, then?”

He stopped his humming and ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”

She nodded along in awkward agreement, though she wasn’t a huge Greenbolter herself. She hoped he’d continue on with the conversation, but instead, he only started his atrocious humming again. The Frog Choir member in her screamed to correct his pitch, but she simply focused her attention on doing her job as prefect correctly.

But her mind was prone to wandering anyway, and even more so when something weighed on her. Why wasn’t Nadim there, and why didn’t he tell her that Calvin was taking his place? It could have been a last minute thing, surely, but he still would have been able to get word to her. He had been missing appointments and dates with her left and right this week — dropping out of Potions study sessions, skipping out on her at the beginning of meals, and now switching rounds with Calvin MacPherson of all people. It was suspicious enough for even a Gryffindor to pick up on.

“Hey, Calvin?” Monty’s curiosity quickly overpowered her, but she did not want to come off overbearing either. “Is there any chance Nadim gave you a reason for why switched rounds with you tonight?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Calvin, accompanied by a snort of a laugh. “I asked to switch. I’m a high ranking member of the Gobstones team, and for some reason — I don’t know why — our meeting got moved to midnight on Tuesday last minute, which happens to be at the same time Sade and I’ve got rounds.

“Naturally, I was a bit freaked out, because now I have to find a replacement, so I asked Lysander to switch, but they already switched with Nadim, and they had something else to do Tuesday night — I don’t know what. So, I go and practically beg on hands and knees for Nadim to trade shifts with me, but he’s a real great chap and switched with me no problem.

“And here I am!”

Monty blinked, taking in the sheer words per millisecond that Calvin had just assailed her ears with. “Oh,” she replied. Then, she blinked again, harder, as she fully digested it. “Did you just refer to Lysander by ‘they?’”

“Well, of course.”

She shook her head in confusion. “How’d you know to do that?”

Calvin stopped walking for a brief moment and shot her a perplexed glance, then chuckled and continued down the corridor. “I always forget how behind Gryffindors get on these things,” he said. “It’s all anyone has been talking about — Lysander being… nonbinary is the word, right? Though, I can only assume you already knew that, so it makes sense you haven’t heard the rumours. But I guess it’s not really a rumour if it’s true…” Calvin scratched at his chin.

“Who told you?”

“Got it straight from the unicorn’s mouth,” replied Calvin. “That is, Kieran Gaiety told me. He said that Lysander came up to him Sunday night and said, ‘I’m nonbinary, let it loose’ — or something to that effect — but of course, Kieran already knew that, because he knows everything at the school. He just doesn’t spread rumours about things like that without being asked to by the source.”

Now Monty understood why she never really spent time one on one with Calvin — and she thought Greer talked fast. “What an honorable man,” she said, drily. 

It really was a wonder how Kieran’s rumours rarely ever infiltrated the ranks of Gryffindor Tower, but if she were to take a guess as to why, it probably had to do with Gryffindors being the most self-contained of the four houses. Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Slytherins intermingled with relative ease, complimenting one another well, but before this year, Monty hardly spent time with non-Gryffindors.

Still, with especially shocking situations word got around in Gryffindor house fairly quickly. Lysander was by no means an unknown around school; they were one of the most famous students by a mile, for Merlin’s sake. If Kieran had known about it before Lysander told him, surely that would have spread around far sooner.

On the other hand, it stood to reason that Kieran Gaiety kept some secrets definitively secret. After all, one of the worst kept secrets in possibly all of Hogwarts history was Albus and Scorpius’ relationship, and as far as she knew, Kieran hadn’t let that one out just yet. Out of all of the rumours that flit about the social circles of Hogwarts, Monty could not remember a single one of them having to do with outing another student. It seemed that even gossip lords had a moral code.

“So far I haven’t heard anyone say something negative about it, which is nice,” said Calvin. “Although, Lorcan has been even more sour than usual. Would you happen to know anything about that?” He flashed his teeth with an innocent grin, though his eyes (decidedly green) flashed with a hunger for gossip.  _ Hufflepuffs. _

Monty replied with a dainty shrug and an innocent smile of her own. “Not a thing,” she lied with a honeyed tone.

Calvin’s shoulders deflated, his faltered, and the pair resumed their rounds with diligent vigilance.

When they finished their rounds and looped back to the front of the Prefect Office, Monty was gladly ready to depart with nothing more than a nod and a wave, but Calvin had other plans. “There are some rumours about you,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t say anything, but it only seems fair that you know what people are saying,”

Oh, she knew what people were saying. “What are they saying?”

Calvin fiddled with his fingers and averted his gaze to the ground. “Well,” he began, and his voice wobbled. “Merlin, there’s no nice way to say this, but a lot of people are against you and Nadim dating. They think you’re only using him to make James Potter jealous, especially after you spent Christmas holiday with him.”

That was not what she thought they were saying. She could feel her ears heating, turning red, but she could not tell if it was from rage or embarrassment. “I— that’s ridiculous,” she sputtered. “I don’t even talk to James Potter. I went to stay with  _ Albus _ because I was disowned by my family, not that it’s anyone’s business.”

“Oh, that’s the other thing. Nott and Goyle were calling you a,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “blood traitor.”

Monty clenched her fist around her wand, as the frigid air surrounding her turned to steam. Her vision was red, and the twitch in her eye had found its way home. Without another word, she turned away from Calvin and stomped her way back to Gryffindor Tower.

How could she even be a blood traitor? She wasn’t even a pureblood, and she was sure grateful about it. Maybe,  _ maybe  _ she was a name traitor, but that wasn’t a thing. Was it?

The Fat Lady stopped her from going any further, and even though she had set the most recent password to the common room, she could not remember it for the life of her. So she took to banging on the stone wall next to the portrait. After a few minutes long shouting match with the poor woman, Monty gave up and stood blankly staring at the unyielding frame.

Worst of all, she was freezing her tail off, having gone all evening without the warm embrace of Nadim’s woolen peacoat. The only thing keeping her even halfway warm was the all consuming feeling of fury that pulsated through her veins — ropes of liquid fire, not unlike the sugary burn of firewhiskey. 

Suddenly, a warm, inviting gust of air wafted from behind her. Without looking back, the shiver that shot up her spine was enough to alert her that the presence was distinctly human and undeniably James Potter. She did not turn around to him, allowing for the scuff of his shoe against cobblestone to formally announce his arrival to the scene.

“You’re not going to dock points,” he said, with a deep rumble in his tone.  _ Merlin on a broom, did his voice get lower?  _ “Are you, Baird?”

She shivered again and sharply turned to face… nothing at all. The cloak came off of his head and revealed him to only be sheer centimeters in front of her. His black curls were almost windswept, and his rectangular glasses sat at a crooked angle, where the torch light glinted off the glass in a way that hid his eyes. 

He smirked, showing only a sliver of ( _ perfect, pearly white _ ) teeth. “Don’t tell me you forgot your own password.”

Monty turned towards the Fat Lady, who was glaring daggers into the direct center of her skull. “It’s been a long night of rounds, Potter,” she shot back. “Mind your own business.”

He held his hands up in defense, and the invisibility cloak fell to the ground — no longer invisible. “Long night of snogging your boyfriend?” he said, but there was an odd edge to his mocking. It was that unplaceable uptick that had been popping up more frequently in his tone.

“No, I—” and then she stopped herself. She lifted a single eyebrow, smirked back, and continued, cooly, “Like I said, ‘Mind your own business.’”

Monty turned to the Fat Lady, expecting the portrait to swing open and let her through, but she was met with an eye roll and a small, “Humph!”

_ Motherfu _ — “If I didn’t know any better,” James said, and he was even closer now, “I’d say you’re trying to get away from me.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms across her chest, and she tried to look anywhere but at his mouth. This was exactly the sort of thing Calvin had warned her about. This was the sort of thing people gossiped about. Of all the defensive responses she could pull up from the recesses of her mind, all of them would have only served to make the tension thicker, so she diverted. “Are you going to say the password or what?”

“That depends,” he said and fhit the tip of his wand against his hand, “are you going to dock points or give me detention?”

Monty had to fight the urge to roll her eyes again, certain that if she did, they would get stuck in the back of her skull. Her hand clenched around the hilt of her wand and pointed at his chest. “Say the stupid password, Potter!”

James glanced down at the wand and gingerly pushed it away with his own. “Whoa, whoa,” he said, with a touch of amusement in his voice. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Far past curfew,” retorted Monty. 

He flicked the sleeve of his sweater away from his wrist and showed her the time on his watch: 12:52. “Be nice to the birthday boy, will you?” 

She looked up from his watch, realizing that she was standing directly under him — practically enveloped by his own body. Whether it was from the fact that he had actually dressed for the weather or his natural body temperature, his warmth seeped into her skin and prompted yet another shiver.

“Merlin, Baird!” James exclaimed and backed away from her, pulling his cloak up off the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me you were freezing?” He hurried over to the Fat Lady to say the password, “ _ Canyon Moon.” _

Finally, the portrait swung out to reveal a firelit entry into the Gryffindor common room. On the couch in front of the fireplace, Jake Lien laid dead asleep with his Transfiguration textbook open faced on his head. Next to him on the floor, awake and scribbling on parchment, was an exhausted looking Calista O’Connor. At nearly one in the morning on a school night, the common room was uncommonly inhabited — mostly by burnt out sixth and seventh years — though none of them took any notice of James and Monty’s arrival.

As she turned to wish him good night, James was looking down at her, with a sloppy half-grin painting his face and a sparkling fire in his hazel eyes. His gaze was like sunlight coming through parted clouds, and it was precisely the kind of thing she did not need right now. “Well,” she whispered, and she had to force anything to come past her lips at all. “Happy birthday, James. Get some sleep.”

She headed towards her dormitory and hovered at the door, but the image of his golden eyes compelled her to look back one more time. James was watching her leave, ruffling his dark hair with his hand. His smile cracked open, and he chuckled as he said, “No detention, though, right?”

* * *

She should have just ignored him, and ended the night like they weren’t friends. Somehow, word must have gotten out about their late night encounter because she didn’t see Nadim even once on Friday. In fact, it seemed that every corner she turned, people were staring at her like she’d done something terribly and horribly wrong.

Meanwhile, James Potter was strutting down the hallways and courtyards getting high fives and “happy birthdays” like it was nobody’s business. Typical, wasn’t it, that she was catching the heat of something she never did, and James was getting praised for the same thing.

Instead of confronting the pockets of students that stared at her and then whispered among themselves, Monty decided her time was best served ignoring them. To further avoid any more interactions with James for the day, she decided that the moment classes ended, she’d hole herself up in her dormitory until the next morning. If there were any James Potter birthday festivities that night, she was none the wiser.

Now with the extra added hours of sleep, Monty was able to start her sixteenth birthday off on the right foot — or so she thought. When she woke, Roxanne had already gone off to run Quidditch plays, and Lucy and Niamh were off doing Merlin knows what. Greer was brushing her teeth, and she smiled at Monty, but made no further indication that she was going to acknowledge the importance of the day.

No one else within Gryffindor Tower made any passing comments on Monty’s birthday, either — seeming to prefer avoiding her gaze more than anything else. As she made her way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, not one person said a single word to her, not even Nadim, who only passed by with a small smile. At the table, Lysander and James were noticeably absent, and while her peers buzzed about with conversation about James’ birthday party the night before, none of them made the connection that it was Monty’s birthday today.

Never mind that, though, as the legions of owls burst into the hall to deliver the Saturday morning post. Monty was not surprised to see her black horned owl, Olly, land with perfect grace on the table in front of her — she was expecting a copy of the _Daily_ _Prophet_ , after all. What she wasn’t anticipating was a smaller letter that was neatly sealed with the Montgomery family crest.

Mother never wrote to her on birthdays. Actually, she had not written to Monty at all since third year, and if she were to be perfectly candid, she was expecting to not hear from her mother ever again. In a rush of excitement, she tore open the envelope, throwing the seal to the wayside, and held the parchment in her hand. The handwriting did not belong to her mother, nor her aunt or grandmother, but rather had a distinct spider-y quality that belonged to none other than her brother, Finch. It read:

_ Dear Pippa, _

_ You have to _ — 

She felt no need to read another word, therefore she did not. Of course, the letter had nothing to do with her birthday. He needed something from her, and that was the only thing that could have possibly compelled him to attempt contact with her. That was all she was worth to them.

Without a second thought about it, she tore up the letter into tiny pieces and cast  _ Incendio  _ to watch her brother’s words burn. The Gryffindors surrounding her at the breakfast table watched on in interest and relative horror as the fire snuffed into ashen nothingness, but not one of them dared to comment on it.

(The  _ Prophet  _ headline about Greece and Brazil joining MACUSA in denying the magical authority of Spain and Turkey was not improving her mood much, either.)

She spent the better part of the afternoon in a vicious state, choosing to spend her morning through lunch hurling dueling spells at a defenseless dummy in the old Duelling Club room. It had been locked when she got there, but evidently not well enough to withstand a rudimentary  _ Alohomora.  _

No one remembered her fucking birthday — her sixteenth fucking birthday. Her brother had the audacity to write to her (on her sixteenth fucking birthday) demanding for her to do… Merlin knows what, but it certainly was not going to be important enough to ignore her birthday over. 

James and Lysander were missing in action all morning, but James hadn’t mentioned her birthday whatsoever Thursday evening — she wouldn’t have been shocked to learn that James didn’t even know her birthday. He always overshadowed it, anyway.

Monty had yet to run into Natalia yet, but at this point, she probably forgot like everyone else. Just like Greer did, because Merlin forbid Monty have a best friend.

She flicked the end of her wand at the wheeled dueling dummy, and it flew backwards to slam into the wall.

And what the hell was Nadim’s deal? Some boyfriend he was (although they hadn’t exactly landed on a title) giving her a half-assed smile for a sixteenth birthday present. Hell, Finch’s letter was more thoughtful than that. All over — what? — an absurd, poorly constructed rumour spread around by people who either don’t like her or don’t like him. If he believed them, then he was a whole lot dumber than she thought.

He didn’t believe them; there was no way. Nadim was analytical, measured, and thoughtful. He wasn’t even capable of impulsivity, or at least she didn’t think so. Although, in all honesty, she didn’t entirely know him as well as she ought to have.

_ Shit!  _ Knockback jinxes were growing tired — not eliciting half so much satisfaction than her anger required. Each time she spewed her most aggressive hexes, the dummy knocked back on its axis and sprung right up, which continued to fill Monty with more fiery rage than any emotional release.

Finally, she snapped and shouted “ _ Reducto!”  _ at the unsuspecting dummy, which subsequently shattered into countless fragments and dissipated into nothingness. Property damage aside, the curse was well shot and served to better her mood enough to convince her to sulk to the Great Hall for an earned lunch.

This mealtime, she was joined by Albus and Scorpius, the latter of which was uncharacteristically twitchy and fidgeting endlessly with anything he could get his hands on. 

Albus slid easily into the spot on Monty’s right, and down the table Rose huffed and scooted even farther away from them. “I couldn’t help but notice you look a bit glum,” he said.

Monty’s eyebrows raised and eyes widened — glum was just the beginning of it. “Yeah,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s been an annoying week. No big deal.”

Scorpius jolted in his seat; his white-blond hair shook across his forehead. “You should hang out with us tonight!” he practically shouted. Albus bumped him in the side with his elbow, prompting a soft grunt of pain. The smaller blond then smiled apologetically, “If you want to, of course. We’re bored.”

She narrowed her eyes — eyelashes touching the inside of her glasses in a strange and uncomfortable manner. “No other reason?” Monty asked, doused in suspicion. “Nothing to do with any specific importance of today?”

Scorpius’ steel grey eyes expanded twice their size, and Albus tilted his head innocently. “What’s important about today?” the emerald eyed Slytherin asked.

“Nothing,” she sighed. Defeat riddled every inch of her body; she was filled with a heaviness in her bones. Maybe she’d be served best by a nap. “I’ll rest up and meet you down here at dinner, yeah?”

The boys bristled with exhilaration; both of their grins mirroring each other in perfect harmony. “Brilliant!” they cried in unison, and together they scurried off out of the hall. Even in her state of pure bitterness, Monty couldn’t deny that those boys were made for each other (and perhaps that made her mood ever the slightest bit worse).

Napping in her dormitory had proven to be impossible, as Roxanne and Lucy decided to have it out yet again — this time over Lucy refusing to let Roxanne borrow her pink dress with the little roses on it.  _ Since when does Roxanne wear dresses? _

The shouting match had been going on for roughly fifteen minutes, or at least since Monty had gotten into the room.  _ Muffilato  _ on her bed poster curtains was not pulling enough weight to keep the endless barrage of arguments from reaching her ears. “Remember when I let you borrow my opal necklace last year?” Lucy said.

“Oh sod off, Lucy!” cried Roxanne. “It’s not my fault it had shoddy workmanship.  _ Reparo  _ fixed it right up, didn’t it? Give me the damn dress!”

“Borrow something from Rose.”

Roxanne scoffed. “Rose dresses like a child.” 

“I’m telling her you said that,” said Lucy, who always toed the line between petulant and overbearing. “Borrow something from Greer, then.”

On their side of the curtains, it went suddenly silent. Come to think of it, Monty hadn’t seen Greer and Roxanne spend any time together since the start of term. They had stopped being partners in Potions — Greer was now partners with Mariana Caticovas of all people, and Roxanne partnered up with James — and the tiny blonde now sat next to Sade in Herbology and Charms along with Archie.

There must have been a falling out of some kind, Monty was sure. When Greer held grudges, she really stuck with them, so her smiling at Monty was massive progress — the kind that only could have come from loyalties changing (again). And if the reason for the fight had not spread around as the next juiciest piece of gossip, it must have fallen under Kieran Gaiety’s apparent “no outing” rule. Therefore, it must have been romantic in nature.

Probably against her better judgment, Monty flicked back her bed curtains with a cast of her wand. “Hey,” she said, unsure of herself. “If you want to borrow one of my dresses, you’re more than welcome. I have a nice shimmery pink one I got from Gladrags over summer that I haven’t worn yet. It’ll probably be a little loose on you, but nothing this,” she waved her wand for emphasis, “can’t fix.”

Lucy’s standard sneer deepened as she crossed her arms and turned to leave the room. However, Roxanne stayed, albeit with a look of skepticism painting every crevice of her face. She walked towards Monty’s bed with caution, so the latter decided to fill the dead air for both of their comfort.

Monty set to work, flinging dress after dress from her endless trunk — rubies, emeralds, sapphires, every dress on the color wheel — narrating the history of each of them, before finally stumbling upon the pastel pink frock. It had been enchanted with small constellations that glowed and shifted over time relative to Earth’s place in the cosmos. The dress flared out at the waist, with a small petticoat for swishiness. The sleeves were long and translucent, and the dressmaker had told Monty that they changed temperature based on whether you were somewhere cold or warm.

Roxanne’s skepticism melted away as she gaped at it open-mouthed, and Monty didn’t blame her. It was quite similar to her own reaction when she’d first seen it. “I can’t wear this,” said Roxanne, nearly breathless. “I mean this is beautiful, but you really should be the first one to wear it.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Monty shrugged and held the dress out to her. “I haven’t been in a pink mood for a while, anyway. Something tells me you have, though.” Greer’s favorite color was famously pink.

“Is it mad that we’re fighting?”

Monty smiled. “Me or Greer?”

Roxanne threw back her head to laugh. “That’s fair.” She settled down onto the edge of Monty’s bed, a single curl falling into her eyes. Her dark freckles were covered with concealer and her eyelids sparkled with thick pink shadow, and it was not clear whether Roxanne enjoyed the change or forced it upon herself. “I know you didn’t tell James about the Captain thing to hurt me.”

The former Chaser sighed and sat on the edge of her bed next to Roxanne. “But I still hurt you,” said Monty. Her eyes glistened with the beginnings of tears, but she maintained a warm, sincere smile. “I never should have said it — no excuses. It wasn’t my secret to tell, and I’m sorry.” Roxanne playfully bumped into her shoulder. Monty continued, feeling lighter now, “And I’m sorry I didn’t say sorry several months ago.”

“You can make it up to me by coming back as Chaser,” replied Roxanne, who sported a shit-eating grin.

Monty laughed. “I’d rather you just hate me.”

Roxanne hopped up off of the bed, taking the pink dress carefully in her hands and admiring it one more time. Monty began to fold up the discarded mounds of gowns and party dresses — most of them hand-me-downs from her cousin — setting them back into their rightful place in the dress corner of her trunk. She hesitated at one of the dresses.

It was a short party dress, made of thin satin that bunched together nicely at the neckline, held up by two thin straps. The dress was a rich garnet color that reflected beautifully against light, but at face value, it wasn’t all that spectacular. It was just a regular dress, only it wasn’t because it was the dress her mother wore to an American muggle party on the 22nd of June, 1999. It was the dress she wore the night she met Will Baird.

Monty had never worn it before, always finding it too precious to even put on, and so she started to fold it.

“Wait, wear that one,” said Roxanne, whose own dress was only put on. “Call it a little birthday treat.”

She remembered. She actually remembered. Monty could not help but allow her face to crack into a grin — at least one person remembered her sixteenth birthday. 

Then it clicked. No one had forgotten her birthday at all. Why else would Roxanne need a special party dress, and why else would all of her friends be suspiciously missing at certain times throughout the week? Why else would Albus and Scorpius want to hang out with her directly before dinner time? They were pulling a Monty Baird on her, and the bastards nearly got away with it. “Roxanne,” she said, slyly. “Anything important I should know about tonight?”

Roxanne recoiled, and her face contorted into a deep cringe. “Fuckin’ hell, and we were doing so well, too,” she muttered. “Just pretend to be surprised, okay? And if anyone says anything, you didn’t find out from me.”

The two Gryffindor girls continued to get ready for the evening, side by unyielding side, and for the first time in months, they were the friends they were before. They danced around the dormitory, using hair brushes as microphones, and blasted the radio’s latest and greatest in recent wizard music. (Even if Monty was growing sick of Worty Greenbolt’s very name, she wasn’t going to ruin the moment for Roxanne by mentioning it.)

Come six o’clock in the evening, the girls were all set to meet Albus and Scorpius in front of the Great Hall. Monty’s spirits had been lifted several times over, now soaring far above the clouds with elation. In all her sixteen years of living, not once had anyone thrown a surprise party for her — if the surprise was spoiled, so be it, because her excitement certainly was not.

Albus and Scorpius were waiting patiently in front of the entry of the Great Hall (standard Monty Baird surprise procedure, if she said so herself), both dressed quite obviously for a party. The boys appeared to have swapped hairstyles for the evening — Scorpius’ straight blond hair wild and disheveled, and Albus’ hair carefully combed back. Had Roxanne not already let the secret slip, the Slytherin boys’ less-than-inconspicuous presentation would have put the final nail in the coffin.

Perhaps she let her excitement get the best of her as she bolted ahead of the cousins and the Malfoy in a strange skip-sprint hybrid. The other three hustled to keep up, with Roxanne stumbling every so often from the pair of white strappy heels that she borrowed from Monty. Even still, they were able to keep close enough behind to where Monty could overhear their labored breathing and choppy conversation.

“I can’t believe you told her,” Albus said, though he sounded painfully out of breath and relatively distant. “He’s going to kill you.”

Without looking behind, Monty could sense Roxanne’s sharp glare at her cousin. “This sort of thing is her whole domain,” she responded with easy, even breathing. “She’s like a bloodhound with this type of shit.”

And Monty took great pride in that.

Evidently, her Chaser days had served her well, as she arrived at the Room of Requirement in record time and without breaking even a little bit of a sweat. The same could be said for Roxanne, whose only barrier to beating her in the chase was the unusual lack of support from her shoes. Albus and Scorpius, on the other hand, were propping each other up, coughing and heaving in massive gulps of air, and looking about ready to collapse into a heap on the floor.  _ Well, not all of us can be athletes. _

The four hovered at the door, unsure of who should take the lead. She wasn’t expecting it, but a sudden rush of nervousness flooded Monty’s blood stream. She had never been on this side of a party. It was unfamiliar, forgeign, and most of all, suspicious. 

After all, why would someone like Roxanne — who up until a few hours ago had not been on Monty’s list of people who liked her — aid in planning and preparing for Monty’s birthday? It should have been Natalia, Sade, Nadim, and the like who had the major hands in it, not the Gryffiindors. As far as Monty was concerned, she was still Gryffindor Enemy Number One.

But a birthday party was a birthday party, so she decided it was best not to ruminate too much on the why and focus more on having fun. 

The moment she stepped through the door, she was greeted by a unison “SURPRISE!” by no less than twenty people — a real party, not an intimate gathering. She had no need for feigning surprise, as the sheer grandeur of the spectacle was enough to take the air clean out of her lungs. The ceiling was turned into a candied pink sunset that spilled over onto the surrounding walls, finally ending in a midnight indigo where it met the floor. Strands of white crystal lights made their way across the faux sky, turning up wherever they thought a guest needed an extra bit of light.

It wasn’t until Monty closer inspected the walls that she realized why the whole scene looked familiar.

The walls appeared to go on for miles, like the painted sets in old Hollywood movies. They looked to be sitting in the valley surrounding a vast mountain range, with evergreens topped with snow swaying gently in the wind that never reached Monty’s skin. They were very distinctly the Rocky Mountains; it was very distinctly Colorado.

In the very center of the room — which seemed to expand with every step she took — a glowing gold banner read “Sweet Sixteen” in emerald lettering, and beneath it, stood a grinning James Potter. He appeared to have decided upon matching the banner, wearing a forest dress shirt — rolled up to mid-forearm as he always did and unbuttoned from the top down to the middle of his sternum. His hair was as windswept and unkempt as ever, in the annoying, roguishly handsome way that only he could pull off.

He sauntered up to her, seeming to purposely draw attention to his long legs, and playfully rested his elbow on her shoulder (probably to remind her that even at her height, she was small compared to him). “So who told you?” James whispered, and his warm breath pushed one of her long curls over her shoulder and down her back. 

Monty suppressed a shudder and pushed his arm off of her. “I’m a super sleuth, Potter,” she replied with ease. “You can’t get anything past me.”

James held his hands up in mock surrender, and as he opened his mouth for what was bound to be a sharp and witty reply, he was prevented in doing so by a force scooping up Monty into a tight embrace from behind them.

“There’s the birthday girl!” exclaimed Nadim, as he spun her around in a circle. He set her down and patted James on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I had to be away all week. James — the dear man — had us all working like dogs to get this party in top shape. Turned out quite well, if I do say so myself.”

The boys engaged in heavy eye contact, as if Nadim was carefully warning James of his place, neither breaking away or severing the newly formed tension. She hadn’t noticed before, but they were remarkably close in height, and their hair colors were nearly identical. Before the awkwardness could expand, James tautly smiled and bowed his head. With a short nod, he backed away from the birthday girl and the Slytherin prefect and disappeared into the throngs of party goers.

_ So James planned all this. _

“Sade and I were in charge of food,” Nadim continued, “but the house elves weren’t too keen on catering yet another non-school sanctioned event, so it took a bit longer than we anticipated.”

Monty surveyed those in attendance. Members from all houses’ Quidditch teams stood around tables covered in mounds of food. The Beaters from the Hufflepuff team — Louisa Vu and Banks Dawsey — were playing some sort of drinking game with cups and a Snitch against the Slytherin Seeker — Sterling Tuttle — and Archie Wright. 

Apparently it was a night for many surprises, as Rose seemed to be somewhat pleasant while talking to Albus and Scorpius. Mariana Caticovas was making polite enough conversation with Natalia and Sade by the punch bowls, and even the Head Girl and Head Boy were passing around a flask with the rest of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. It wasn’t quite as large a turn out as the All House Bash from the year previous — the one that had been famously shut down by Finch and the Headmistress, herself — but it was enough of a crowd to tickle Monty a sweet shade of pink.

Speaking of, Greer approached Roxanne (dazzling in the star studding pink frock) from across the room, handing her a crystal cup of punch and sharing an unspoken acceptance of forgiveness. That was what Monty loved most of all about parties, and why she had such a passion for throwing them for her friends. At the end of the day, the social intoxication of a party’s atmosphere was enough to heal even the deepest of wounds.

On a completely separate note, Monty seemed to have spaced out as she scanned the crowd and completely missed the fact that Nadim was very much still telling her about how he and Sade got the food tables together. “Oh, here I go rambling,” he said with a very polite laugh. “You should probably make your rounds. I have to go check with Sade to make sure we’re all set with beverages, anyway.” With a well-humored salute, Nadim gracefully navigated through the pods of students and whisked Sade away from her spot with Mariana and Natalia — both of whom scowled at the Slytherin-Hufflepuff duo’s retreating figures.

Well, that was as good a group as any to start with. “Evening, ladies,” Monty said, though it was more focused on Natalia than Mariana.

Natalia’s scowl quickly reconstructed into a jovial grin. “Happy birthday, Monty,” she said and pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry I had to hide from you all day. I knew the second I saw you, I’d spoil the surprise.”

Mariana finished a sip of her drink and scoffed. “I heard the Weasley girl already spoiled the surprise.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than just ‘Weasley girl,’” replied Natalia with a small smirk. “There’s practically a hundred of them.” Mariana cracked a smile at that.  _ At least they’re getting along. _

Monty glanced around the room, trying to gauge the exact number of attendees and how much time she should spend with each small group to get through all of them and still have enough time to genuinely enjoy herself. To be fair, most of the people there were not actually there to celebrate her birthday. For example, any members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team were absolutely only there to share firewhiskey, as not a single one of them liked her one bit. Realistically, she could cut her turn about the room in half and most of them wouldn’t notice that they didn’t get a greeting from the birthday girl, and she wasn’t even sure what her obligations were as a non-hostess of a large party. She was just an attendee as well, wasn’t she?

Luckily enough for her, the party seemed to want to greet her instead. Throughout the evening, people filtered by her to send her “happy birthdays” and the occasional hug, but for the large part, they were all intent on engaging in their own separate activities. 

Greer made a point to catch her in a warm hug, wishing her the happiest of birthdays and knowingly complimenting her dress. (She also joked that she expected Monty to throw her a big sixteenth birthday, too, which was a good sign as far as reconciliation went.)

Monty refrained from drinking, unlike many of the others, having decided that her birthday would be best served if her memory remained intact. While Jake Lien resumed his regular drinking hobby of attempting cartwheels (his form was getting better, in fairness), Monty stayed by the back wall’s image of the base of the Rockies.

She felt content to just observe, in fact she was preferring it. There was so much that could go missed from the middle. She watched as Albus and Rose were locked into what looked to be an intense discussion, which ended with both cousin’s tearing up and embracing, holding each other for an eternity. Lysander was emboldened by firewhiskey courage, using their drunk bravery to regard contact with Archie without a trace of fear. Mariana and Natalia remained glued by each other’s side all night, unlikely friends engaged in skeptical glances across the room to Merlin knows where. 

Monty enjoyed watching from the wall, perhaps even more than joining the fray. She was a spectator in a team sport — like Greer with Quidditch practice — learning from the outside what she wouldn’t know in the center.

“Hope you like it,” came James' voice from next to her, scaring her half out of her wits.

She jumped in shock. “Merlin, why do you always do that?”

He handed her a plate with a cut piece of strawberry cake and a single lit candle on top. In his other hand, he held a nearly identical piece of cake, also with a lit candle. She must have eyed it with some look of wary suspicion as he said, “ _ Someone _ ,” and he added a cheeky wink for good measure, “didn't throw me my usual birthday party last night, so I’m making up for it now.”

Monty stuck her tongue out at him and looked down at her own slice. “My intel says you had a raging party last night.”

“Your intel was a rouse planted by yours truly,” he replied. “Thank Merlin you turned in early, too, otherwise you probably would have caught us much earlier.

“You do like the party though, yeah? I can’t tell with you sticking yourself in the corner like this. Is it too much? Not enough?”

She really ought to have turned and ran. This was so public, so open, and exactly the kind of hushed conversation that fueled the flames of pre-existing rumours. Nadim was in the same room, for Merlin’s sake. The very nature of being alone with James was indecent, so why couldn’t she force herself away?

“No, no,” she said. “It’s great. Perfect even. Who’s idea was it for the mountains?”

James ducked his head and ruffled his hair with his free hand, which was answer enough. “I came up with the concept, but Natalia finalized it. I’ve got to admit, she’s the coolest Ravenclaw I’ve ever met. I see why you hang out with her so much.”

“Yeah, well,” Monty said, adding a dry chuckle, “it definitely helps that she doesn’t hate me like our house does.” James awkwardly half-laughed and shook his head, but said nothing else to refute it. She bumped her shoulder into his side and grinned, using her head to signal at the candles. “Shall we?”

“To sixteen?” James said, his eyes glowing softly in the single candlelight. 

“To sixteen.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Before I do my usual cheesy spiel, I want to address some things that have come up in the Harry Potter fandom as a whole.
> 
> On many platforms, there are members of the fandom that are engaging in hatred and targeted attacks against marginalized communities. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and Jewish members of the community have been receiving an influx in racist, bigoted, and anti-semitic hate speech and attacks, and it is not acceptable, nor has it ever been. Please know, that if you find it acceptable to participate in the perpetuation of racism, transphobia, homophobia, anti-semitism, or any other hateful actions, you are not welcome here. This is a place for people to live without fear.
> 
> Unfortunately, we are a part of a fandom whose work was built on a foundation of these hateful mindsets. J.K. Rowling's racism, transphobia, anti-semitism, etc. is a major player in the original text of the Harry Potter books. Part of my writing is trying to dismantle (and honestly discredit) much of the terribly problematic aspects of canon. As I aim for diversity in characters such as Nadim, Natalia, Sade, and Lysander, I know that I may unintentionally misrepresent the cultures and identities I seek to represent. If that is ever the case, I hope that you will call me out on it, so that I can rectify it and own up to my mistakes.
> 
> To those in the fandom that have been the target of the attacks, I love you, I hear you and I see you.


	18. The Valentine's Jitterbug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Valentine's Ball on the student population of Hogwarts' mind, James gets caught up in the gossip circuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine if I wrote my chapters in a timely manner.

February came in hot with the tantalizing promises of the return of the Valentine’s Day Ball — a semi-formal gala meant to delight those linked in relationships and inflict unending misery on those who were not. Yet, James Potter was of the very few not attached to either branch of the romantic dichotomy. He was untethered, unscathed, and not the least bit worried about what Valentine’s weekend had in store for him.

First, he expected the dance to go off without a hitch. He would — of course — go stag and remain just barely within reach for interested parties. By the second week of February, James had already swatted away upwards of fifteen girls’ date proposals ( _ Beater’s skills).  _

(Though, James had to admit turning down sixth year Hufflepuff, Serena Chang-Walsh, was particularly difficult.)

Second, he depended on the Valentine's Day Ball to go perfectly — well, poorly — so that he might secure a certain date to Hogsmeade the next day. If he were lucky, there would be a special table for two in the back corner of the Three Broomsticks.

Oh yes, James Potter was flying through February with his head held high, and there was not an obstacle in sight. Fifth year classes were proving to be nothing less than a breeze, and Wiley was shaking out his first game nerves and began to prove himself a decent enough Chaser. 

One of the perks of being back as Captain — besides the unparalleled popularity and endless flirtations from girls in the upper-years — was his return to the ceremonious return to the Prefect’s Bathroom. With all the excitement of the romance directly in his path, James was more than eager to prepare with a long soak in the pool-sized tub, covered head to toe in floral scented bubbles. 

In theory, it would have been the perfect way to settle his stomach, which even he had to admit had been scrambling itself up roughly every time he so much thought of a particular pretty brunette. Perhaps even some lavender oil could help him sleep that evening, but alas James’ luck was never quite as it should be.

Once he passed through the threshold of the Prefect Bathroom, he was met with the startled faces of Natalia Truitt and Mariana Caticovas. The Ravenclaw-Slytherin pair snapped their open mouths shut and stared at him with a look that seemed to translate to  _ “get the hell out.” _ James nodded his greeting and set off to the other side of the spacious stone bathroom to prepare for his now less-than-relaxing evening.

The girls shared anxious glances between themselves and James, whispering in harsh tones that bounced off the walls in an incomprehensible jumble.

“All right, are ya’, ladies?” called James. The girls stopped whispering and looked at him straight on.

Natalia was the first to speak. “Quite well, James. Thank you. You?” She fidgeted with her fingers.

He cocked an eyebrow. “The same.” 

The Ravenclaw smiled tautly and subtly shook her head at her Slytherin companion. It was an odd pairing, James thought, as he had previously been certain that Mariana Caticovas was of the same mind as the Warren Notts of the world.  _ You really do learn something new every day. _

Mariana’s glowering did not stop.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” James asked, while untying his tie. Come to think of it, the girls were both completely dressed in their uniforms, which struck James as odd considering the nature of the bath part of the room.

“No,” replied Natalia. 

However, Mariana said, “Yes, actually,” at the very same time, and they both stopped to glare at each other.

“Well that clears things up,” said James.

“Perhaps he knows something,” Mariana half-whispered to Natalia before turning promptly to face James, her thick black curls whipping around as she did so. “Nadim Bahri and Sade Agrinya have gotten rather close, don’t you think?”

_ Bollocks.  _ “Have they?” James feigned ignorance.

Mariana’s eyes narrowed. “You’re close with Montgomery Baird, so you must know that Nadim has been spending less and less time with her ever since that party.”

_ Shit, they know.  _ “Her birthday party?” James could feel his voice rising up in his throat. “No, I’m a bit too focused on Quidditch to pay attention to it. The Hufflepuff game’s coming up rather soon, you know.”

In hindsight, perhaps their — Lysander’s and his, that is — plan to push Nadim and Sade together in planning Monty’s birthday party was… transparent at its best. Maybe messing up the catering a few times to ensure they spent more time together was a bit devious, and perhaps forcing the rescheduling of the Gobstones Team meeting so that Calvin would have to trade prefect rounds with Nadim was all together dastardly at its very worst.

But any time the two have spent together outside of surprise party territory was entirely of their own volition, and you could not pin that on James. Theoretically, the plan probably shouldn’t have worked at all, so there.

“Come off it,” said Mariana, her tongue sharp. “You know that Sade and Nadim proposed the idea for the Valentine’s Day Ball to the Headmistress, and you know that as of Tuesday, Sade turned down Archie Wright’s invitation to be his date.”

James shrugged and began to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Yeah, and? Nadim still asked Monty to be his date a week ago.” The girls stared at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you mind? I’m trying to take a relaxing bath.”

“We do mind,” snapped Mariana. “We were here first.”

Natalia placed a comforting hand on the smaller girl’s shoulder and softly warned, “Mari.”

“Why are you so concerned about it?” asked James, and he stopped unbuttoning at the third one from the top. “So what if they’re close. Is it affecting you?”

The girls froze for a moment, and James felt a sliver of relief. They weren’t on to him at all, and now the tide had turned.

Natalia stammered for a moment, her mouth gaping and tripping over sounds before she finally managed to force out, “Monty’s my dearest friend.”

Mariana nodded, not-so-subtly following the Ravenclaw’s lead, “She’s my cousin.”

“Really?” Natalia asked, distracted.

“Distantly,” Mariana flatly replied.

“You and half the school,” James said. He regarded them both with suspicion. “I already know that you,” James pointed to Natalia, “have feelings for Sade, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say you,” he looked at Mariana, “have feelings for Nadim.”

The Slytherin bristled. “The only feeling I have for Nadim as of present is the feeling that he’s in my way.”

Natalia blinked. “What she means to say is that she also has some feelings for Sade?”

“Again,” said James, grinning and as cheeky as could be, “you and half the school. And doesn’t that technically mean you’re enemies?”

“What do you mean?” asked the Ravenclaw.

James buttoned his shirt back up. There was no need for indecency, after all. “You’re both interested in Sade. Even if Nadim was out of the way — which he probably is — you’d still be in competition with each other.”

The pair looked one another up and down, or in Mariana’s case way up and eye level.  _ (Really, the girl is tiny.)  _ Then, Natalia cleared her throat and faced James again. “Don’t change the subject,” said the Ravenclaw, all rather unconvincingly. “All we wanted to know is if Monty has mentioned anything about Sade and Nadim to you, and clearly she hasn’t. Although,” she said, with a fox-like tone, “I’m quite sure that if you did have some choice information on them, you’d benefit from allowing the whole situation to run its course. Isn’t that right?”

James froze. Maybe she was on to him. The birthday party was not particularly subtle, after all, and sometimes it was as if the very walls of Hogwarts had ears. Or maybe the whole damn thing was ridiculous to begin with, and he was reading far too into her tone. “Maybe you should just ask Monty what she thinks about them spending time together.”

Mariana scoffed. “She’s famously erratic.”

She wasn’t… wrong per say, though James felt she really had no right to say as much. But in truth, Monty could be unpredictable in her reactions, and having been on the receiving end of the volcano, he could not exactly blame them for avoiding the fall out.

Natalia averted her eyes to the ground. “Well,” she said, “we should probably let you get to your bath now, yes?”

With an awkward nod and a shuffle of shoes against stone, the girls disappeared through the doorway into the corridor, leaving James alone to attempt relaxation.

* * *

It freaked him out all through the night and well into the next afternoon — Valentine’s Day afternoon, too. The conversation in the Prefect Bathroom seemed on paper to be nothing more than an uncomfortable interaction between three people with marginally terrible social skills and very little previous knowledge of one another. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more it just struck him as… odd. 

There was this churning in his stomach all day and a heaviness in his chest, and all together, he just felt wrong — as if mud could be an emotion. He couldn’t shake it through his morning classes, and by the time lunch came around, the sheer thought of eating made him thoroughly ill. Worst of all, Miss Montgomery Baird was the first to take note of it.

“Are you okay, Potter?” Monty asked, and her deep amber eyes sparkled with an earnest that should have contracted at his heart, but instead caused for another lurch in his stomach. “You barely ate breakfast, too.”

James glanced around the table, embarrassed, but found that no one else was so much as looking their way. 

“Don’t worry,” she said with a smile, “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if people were listening.”

In fact, the entire Great Hall was buzzing about, far too interested in their own romantic escapades. Carefully crafted Valentines fluttered through the open airways above the tables, zooming past heads and directly into the hearts of their targeted recipients. Even Roxanne and Greer were getting on again, and James suspected they were getting it… you know what, never mind that. 

Illuminated pink and red hearts were being hoisted into the air by an eager group of third years that had weaseled their way into an invitation to the ball on the grounds that they’d decorate and take down decorations, and of course James’ brother and cousin were amongst the group.  _ Seems everyone’s getting along now. _

“Potter?” Monty said and waved her hand in front of his face.

“Huh?” he snapped out of his trance (and came to find his mysterious illness had come back with him. “Oh, sorry. I’m a bit out of it today, yeah. Didn’t sleep much last night, and I suppose my stomach has taken it upon itself to kick up a fuss about it.”

She nodded in understanding. Her hair was tied up into an unruly brown knot atop her head, with the front pieces tumbling out in waves. Her tie was loose around her neck and the top two buttons of her uniform unbuttoned, and underneath her eyes there was a faint hint of purple. She looked thoroughly exhausted, and James was certain he had never seen a sight quite so beautiful.

“Yeah, I hear you,” said Monty, and she took a sip of her morning tea, which fogged up her glasses at the bottom. “I haven’t been sleeping much either, but I’d eat a little if you can manage. Got to keep our strength up for tonight, right?”

He could feel his ears light a fire, spreading swiftly across his cheeks. “Uh… what?”

“The dance, James.”

“Ah, yes,” he sputtered. “Of course… the dance.”

His nerves didn’t settle much at all well into the evening. By the time Archie, Leland, and Miles were already out the dormitory door and into the fray of things, James had only just barely decided to wear his silver tie over his black one. (“Why do I have so many bloody ties?” he had complained.) Meanwhile, Lysander was seemingly riding the high of Sade’s recent rejection of Archie.

“It’s a beautiful evening, don’t you think?” they said, whimsically staring up at the ceiling from their seat on the ground. 

Lysander was quite pleased with their outfit for the evening, and with good reason. Teddy had sent them a long, flowing skirt earlier in Monday’s post after Victoire had told him that orange really wasn’t much of his colour. That evening would mark Lysander’s first time wearing a skirt, and it was evidently rather freeing.

James hummed in response. “Does the silver clash with my skin tone?” he asked.

“You have one of those ‘every colour’ skin tones, I think,” replied Lysander, still dreamily staring into space. “Tonight will be simply magnificent.”

“Well, at least someone’s excited.”

Lysander’s gaze fell back onto James, with a small scowl. “You worry too much,” they said. “Just take a few deep breaths, and you’ll be fine, Jamesie. Oh, and actually the silver tie isn’t selling it for me.”

James sighed deeply and decided to abandon ties all together. All of them made him feel strangled anyhow.

A few deep breaths — as recommended by Healer Lysander — were nothing in the face of the imposing visage of the Great Hall’s doors, enchanted pink and red, but no less intimidating. Just beyond the entrance, James could hear the bustling blend of music, stomping feet, and incessant student chatter, and within it, he knew a certain brunette Gryffindor to be among them.

All at once, he felt even sicker than before and entirely out of place. Was his outfit too dull? Were his shoes going to squeak? Without the guidance of firewhiskey, could he dance? But before he could turn and run, Lysander flung the doors open and shoved him into the heat of the dance hall.

He was sure he’d never seen so much pink in his life. Perhaps he’d missed a memo, but easily more than half of the girls on the floor were wearing pink dresses of varying shades and tastefulness. Flamingo coloured hearts floated high onto the ceiling, a particular shade that James was wise enough to recognize as Albus’ ticket into the fourth year and up ball. Even the pastries on the side tables were all topped with pink and red frostings and sprinkles. If James didn’t feel sick before, he certainly did now.

The Great Hall felt both massive and incredibly claustrophobic as students gathered in masses to bop along to — oh, Merlin help him — Worty Greenbolt and his gaudily dressed band, the Vampers. Front and center of the hall and directly in the front of the stage, throngs of female students (and very noticeably, Calvin MacPherson) screamed and grabbed at the spindly, crimson haired crooner. Now, James really felt sick. 

Then, all at once, James’ sickness was replaced with a tingling, warm sensation as his ear caught the familiar ring of a young woman’s voice. Across the dance floor, but not entirely too far away, Monty Baird — in a surprisingly simple black dress — laughed along with whatever tale Professor Slughorn was spinning for her and  _ stupid Nadim Bahri.  _ Still, even Nadim’s irritating presence couldn’t dim the fire in James’ chest at the sight of the girl’s ruby and pearl grin.

Perhaps if he had moved quicker, he could have gotten to her, but instead he was swept by the crook of his elbow into the dancing crowd by a giggling pack of fourth year girls.

“You will save a dance for me, won’t you?” asked one — a blonde (possibly) Slytherin girl that he didn’t recognize for the life of him. “You promised me a dance not too long ago.” Yeah, he was certain he’d never spoken to her a minute of his life.

“Oh,” James said, and another girl began to tug on his arm, pulling him farther onto the dance floor.

“And me,” added the girl on his arm. Were all these girls transfer students or something?

“Right, uh, sure,” stumbled James, and he got tossed around to a new gaggle of young ladies. Of course, he had no real intention of dancing with any of them; he didn’t even know them. 

That’s what really pissed him off about the whole thing, really. Groups of girls he’d never once met were demanding his attention, and on what grounds? His name? His fame? They knew nothing of his personality, his interests, anything he cared about at all. If they did, they would know that he had no interest in anyone else.

There was a small opening in the throngs of dancing students. James’ gaze flicked over to where Monty had been standing only minutes before, but the space in front of the refreshment table was empty. The opening was swiftly swallowed by dresses and suits spinning to fill every available space.

Very briefly, James caught a flash of his brother and the Malfoy thrashing in a small circle and with very little rhythmic coordination, and then even they were consumed by the rest of the herd.

It took several terribly generic upbeat songs for James to finally gain good enough footing to push his way out of the center of the hall and out to the punch bowl. A sweeping survey of the area found that Monty Baird was nowhere to be found, but James watched as Sade Agrinya grabbed Nadim Bahri’s arm and dragged him from the far corner of the ballroom out into the corridor. 

The sickness was quite gone now, and James was quite thrilled about it. There was a satisfaction seeded in the pit of his stomach, praising him for work well done. It was rewarding, James thought, for his work to come to fruition, but he didn’t get much chance to bask in its glow before another set of hands yanked at his arm once again.

This time, James was met with the piercing blue eyes of Natalia, wide and darting about in panic. Next to her and just a bit lower, Mariana appeared to share Natalia’s anxious disposition, though with more of an air of frustration. “Did Monty come back in?” asked Natalia, her voice strained and urgent.

James did not get a chance to lob a quip about how he and Natalia were dressed practically the same. “She left?” was his only response.

“She got a nosebleed,” said the Ravenclaw, “and went to go fix her makeup, but she hasn’t come back yet.”

“Well,” James began, “maybe she went up to her room to fix it. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

Mariana huffed. “She’ll be coming back soon, and Sade and Nadim will be together in the corridor. Alone.”

_ Oh.  _ James’ face contorted to mirror the girls’ looks of pure fear, and the unplaceable sickness once more usurped his gratification. He hadn’t exactly thought far enough ahead to think about Monty’s reaction, and if history served him well, there was a good chance the whole castle would be leveled by morning. Without another word, James and the girls zipped to the entrance of the Great Hall, hovering just barely in the hallway.

Just a tad farther down the corridor, Sade and Nadim faced each other and in close enough quarters to not only rouse suspicion, but confirm them. If they were attempting to be secretive, they were failing miserably at it as they spoke loudly enough that their words echoed softly against the walls.

“We can’t avoid it anymore, Nadim,” said Sade with an uncharacteristic firmness. “I think we both know that.”

Nadim scoffed in a manner that James would have liked to fault him for, but really rather seemed more like an act of shock and exasperation. “I don’t think there’s any need to be so hasty.”

The Hufflepuff squared her shoulders, a single black braid falling over onto the back of her white dress. She turned away from him for a brief second, forcing James and the other two girls to dive back into the frame of the doorway, and she did not see them. She bit down on her lip and grimaced to herself, the entire visage contracting in a look of unbridled pain. There was a faint but persistent tapping sound from the far end of the hallway. Then, she swiveled back to the Slytherin and bellowed, “Do you or do you not have feelings for me, Nadim Bahri?”

He rushed forward to her, taking one of her hands in both of his. “Of course I do, but—”

A strangled yelp appeared where the tapping had been born from, cutting off the rest of what Nadim had to say. Monty’s eyes widened — seemingly only a speck of brown in a sea of white — and her mouth hung open and unmoving from her cry. Her chest heaved against the heart shape of her dress’ neckline, growing rapidly in pace, and even from James’ distance, he could see her whole body begin to shake.

Meanwhile, Nadim and Sade faced the trembling brunette, frozen and although he couldn’t see their faces, James was positive that they wore expressions of terror. The muffled rumbling of the ball behind closed doors hung in otherwise empty air, simultaneously worlds away and consuming every last bit of available space. For a few breathless moments, there was no movement whatsoever, everything painfully still.

Then with a sharp jolt, Monty pushed past Sade and Nadim and flew through down the corridor, her hair billowing behind her in a flurry of straight chocolate locks. She must not have noticed James and the girls standing there at all, as she made no attempt to hide the tears spilling down and staining her face. She looked hurt, mortified, and atrociously angry, and deep down (against his will) James knew that it was partially his fault.

The sickness had a name. James knew better enough to christen it now: Guilt. 

All at once, the corridor broke into a flurry of activity. Sade sprinted after Monty with a speed only made possible with the most fine-tuned of Seeker’s skills — Natalia and Mariana not far behind. As Nadim started in the same direction, James swiftly cut in front of him to block the path.

“I wouldn’t go out there, mate,” said James, sporting a disingenuous politeness.

Nadim, normally the pinnacle of gentlemanly nature, slapped James’ arm out of his way and attempted to get past him. Again, James stopped the Slytherin in his tracks. 

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” snapped Nadim. “I have to—”

“You’ve done quite enough.”

His green eyes narrowed, almost as if they were trying to cut through James’ flesh to pave way for him to get to her, but he made no other movement. “You know,” his voice was low, dangerous, “I wanted to believe you were a good man, Potter. I really did. But inviting her to Christmas, planning her birthday party, blowing up my Potions final — all to humiliate me? You’ve taken every opportunity to make me look smaller than you, and now you fancy you’ll swoop in and save her. Be the knight in shining armour riding on the back of your own arrogance and self-importance. No, I don’t think I ought to give you the chance. Now, I will only ask you this once, James. Will you please get the hell out of my way?”

James felt his jaw tighten, a smoldering rage igniting in his stomach, and he did not move. “I don’t think I will.”

Nadim huffed and shuffled backwards a few steps, running a hand over his forehead. He then shifted his weight back, and James could only watch as a fist came barreling towards his face. With a crack — or was it more of a thud — James felt himself hurtling backwards, and when he connected with the cobblestone flooring, there was only black.

* * *

Next thing he knew, Lysander was hitting him in the head with his pillow and shouting words he could not manage to make out. He knew he didn’t drink last night, so why in Godric’s good name did his head hurt so badly? James blindly flailed about, trying to grab his glasses from the bedside table, and Lysander took pause in beating the everloving hell out of their dear friend and handed him the spectacles.

James blinked slowly to gain more awareness, and realized that the pounding pain came less from his temples (as a hangover traditionally did) and rather radiated from the left side of his jaw. That’s when he remembered what happened the night before.  _ The bastard fuckin’ punched me!  _ His hand flew up to the afflicted area, but soon recoiled as a small flash of pain hit him again.

“How bad does it look?” he asked his blond friend, who was gearing up for another hit of the pillow.

“It looked better before I started hitting you with this,” they replied and thrashed the pillow about in the air. James snatched it out of their hand, placing it carefully on the other side of his bed. “Mate, if you don’t get up now, you’re missing Hogsmeade.”

He groaned in pain. “Sod off.”

Lysander pulled him up by the arms, like a parent picking up their child. “Don’t be like that. Haven’t you heard? Monty Baird’s a free woman; Mariana saw the whole thing go down on the Quidditch Pitch.”

James bolted upright, and nearly slammed into Lysander’s face in the process. “Is she okay? Have you talked to her? Sander, I feel so awful about it.”

“Yeah,” they replied, “probably because you got knocked out by Nadim Bahri.”

“I’m not joking, Lysander. I really hurt her.”

After knowing them his entire life, James knew Lysander’s expressions like the back of his hand, and he knew when they were trying to hide something. So when the mirrored look of guilt passed through their eyes for only a second, James caught it, and then it was gone and replaced with a cheeky grin.

“Just buy her a butterbeer to make it up to her,” they said, and James didn’t have the energy to correct Lysander. Monty wasn’t much of a fan of butterbeer.

By the time the Gryffindor pair made it out of the castle, the path into town was sparse with people — presumably most of the student population years three and up had already arrived in the streets of Hogsmeade. With varying levels of athleticism, Lysander and James decided to run to catch up, and in doing so ran head on into a pair of whispering girls.

“Oh!” cried Natalia, picking herself up off the ground in front of James. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Watch where you’re going,” snapped Mariana, whilst dusting off her boots. “These are genuine leather and antique.”

Lysander rushed to help the ladies up. “Sorry, girls! Someone,” they shot a look at James, “made me late.”

“How did last night go?” James asked, wary and uncertain, and the group made their way down the path. “Is everyone okay?”

The Ravenclaw and Slytherin shared a look of alarm, the latter’s thick curls shaking the tiniest amount. Natalia smiled politely at the Gryffindors. “Well,” she said, with an unconvincingly sweet disposition, “Sade cried. There was a bit of yelling, if I recall correctly, and there’s a decent chance Nadim’s still in the infirmary.”

_ As he should be. _

“She set off lightning on the pitch, and his trousers caught fire,” added Mariana, flatly. “I quite liked that bit, actually.”

“Lightning?” Lysander echoed. “What spell is that?”

James smacked his lips together. Now, obviously Monty was well on the road to being a Charms master, and she was a brilliant dueller. Yet, even in her worst of tempers, she would never go so far as to purposely strike someone with lightning — and he knew nothing of a lightning spell, anyway. “That doesn’t sound intentional, if you ask me,” he said.

Natalia’s eyebrows knitted together. “I used to make little rain clouds as a child whenever I was very sad, but never a whole storm.” 

This was likely the most James had ever heard Natalia speak, and the nicest Mariana had ever been to him. Overall, he couldn’t help but feel like he was caught in the… that old muggle television show in black and white with the floating eyeball. He’d seen it once or twice when he was younger — couldn’t remember where — but Merlin, did it scare him sideways.

“That’s Monty for you,” said James, and he couldn’t help the dreaminess in his voice. “Even when she doesn’t mean to be, she’s the most powerful person I know.”

The other three groaned, and Lysander added gagging noises to boot. “Yeah, who cares about that guy who offed Voldemort,” joked Lysander. “The most powerful person you know is your schoolboy crush.”

Together, the unlikely group of four entered Hogsmeade, expecting the usual hullabaloo that occurred every trip around a holiday season. Instead, only small groups of students passed by, sporadically and silently, like a ghost town. Lysander and James’ expressions of confusion bled into their movements and halted them in their place in front of the Three Broomsticks.

“Merlin, what happened here?” James asked.

“While you were getting beat up,” said Mariana. “There were at least four major breakups at the ball — not including Nadim and Montgomery.”

Natalia shot her a look of reproach. “So we’ve heard from—”

“Kieran Gaiety,” said Lysander and James in perfect unison, and the girls nodded.

The Ravenclaw supplied, “I guess most people stayed back.”

They all stood still for a minute, uncertain whether to go their separate ways or to remain awkwardly in their new pack. A chill shot through the wool of James’ coat and threatened to freeze them all where they stood. With that, the girls took their leave to Honeydukes, and Natalia was even so kind as to offer to meet them at Madam Puddifoot’s later in the afternoon — over James’ dead body.

The Gryffindors decided that the only place best to be was, of course, the Three Broomsticks. Eventually, James would make his way to Spintwitches and Zonko’s, but for now, he desperately needed a butterbeer and a semblance of warmth. This would have been an easy plan — he’d executed it several times before — but once he reached for the handle of the door, it flung open.

He was soon accosted by the fiery presence of Monty Baird — clad in her Quidditch sweater and matching red tights — pushing him back into the icy streets of Hogsmeade. (Lysander, in true fashion, paid no mind to the attack and slipped through into the warm embrace of the indoors.)

“Merlin, Potter! Did you get lost or something? I need to—” Monty’s words caught in her throat. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“What?” James’ hand flew to his face, and the jolt of pain reminded him again of his suffering humiliation. “Oh, I got punched.” He chuckled and ran his hand through his hair. She cared about his face.

She tilted her head, and her soft brown waves fell over her shoulders. He loved her hair like that; it was ethereal, inviting even. “Uh, anyway,” she continued with a shake of her head. “How’s O’Connor holding up with Chaser?” Her eyes glinted with a wildness he’d only ever seen before on the pitch.

Merlin, his stomach felt all fluttery and his head was buzzing. “Huh?” he mumbled. “O’Connor? Oh! She’s terrible, really. She got better for a week or so, but she’s not putting the work in.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said to herself. She rolled her shoulders back and held her head up high. “Put me back on. I know there’s less than a month before the Hufflepuff game, but my broom’s still here.”

“Monty,” he said cautiously, “it’s been almost a year since you played.”

“Right.”

“And you’re so busy with prefect duties.”

“Yup.”

“And your private Charms lessons.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And… everything else you do.”

“Definitely.”

He sighed. “I’m not sure if a month’s enough time to get you ready.”

“I know,” said Monty. “And you know I can do it.”

She stared at him (into his soul, probably), and slowly a grin spread across her lips. Why did she have to be so bloody charming? The street didn’t feel so cold anymore — the burning sensation on his cheeks took care of that — and James could swear that he would be able to stay there forever if she asked him to.

_ Fuckin’ hell.  _ He let all the breath out of his lungs. “Welcome back to the team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I know these have been pretty long chapters recently, so my chapters have been taking a while to post. 
> 
> If you have read this far, which I hope you have, I would really, really appreciate a comment. I love to hear from all of you!


	19. And, Well, Lightning Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the week following the Valentine's Day Ball, Monty pushes herself to the brink of exhaustion.

The mind was a mysterious and wondrous thing. Flaring and sparking, an endless sizzling, not once allowing itself to quiet — and that was just when there was nothing of great importance to think about. At its least active, it was still a firecracker of movement and ability, but now… oh, yes, now it was a whole damn light show.

A few months before her father was killed, the Baird family went to Disneyland. Araminta sat out and did not go a single one of the rides, not that she would have enjoyed them anyway. (It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Monty learned it was because her mother was pregnant.) Finch was afraid of the roller coasters and always claimed he felt sick, and Joel was just barely big enough to go on even the little caterpillar ride. 

However, Monty pulled on the sleeve of her dad’s shirt and dragged him from one thrill ride to the next. Fortunately for the little sprite, she had hit a growth spurt the year before, and at the budding age of seven was tall enough for the big drops. Towards the end of the night, her father took her on the colossal haunted hotel ride — a horror that should have incited a semblance of fright for a small child, but she’d already seen many ghosts in her day.

They hovered, suspended in air for what seemed like an eternity, as the fireworks in the distance exploded into a rainbow bouquet. Her father was laughing, a wide and deep chortle that she could still hear if she focused hard enough, and the colors of the fireworks reflected against the darkness of his eyes. Then the ride plummeted down, and Monty screamed.

But she was not afraid, not even a little. She was invigorated, determined to feel that weightlessness again.

She would not feel that feeling again for many years, not until she was eleven and took off to the skies on her broom for the very first time. It was drizzling, and the droplets splashed against the bareness of her face and settled onto her eyelashes. She raced James Potter around the training grounds, cackling gleefully as he fell so far behind that he gave up entirely.

On her first day back on the pitch since the Ravenclaw match, the fireworks in her head lit up, and she swore if she could have just gotten a moment to focus on it, she’d see her father’s eyes in it. Yet, she could not stop. She hadn’t stopped moving since the Valentine’s Ball.

Monty was more than fireworks, even. She had summoned lightning, wandless and mindless, and no one could take that from her. Whatever weaknesses she had before were dead and buried, struck by lightning. She had electricity burning through her bloodstream.

“You ready, Baird?” James asked, as he walked up from behind her on the pitch. 

The air was freshly crisp, having rained the night before and settled into a calm deweyness by morning. Monty promised to meet James on the pitch every morning — rain or shine — to run and perfect new Quidditch plays. 

“You bet,” replied Monty, and the pair took off into the air.

There was a freeness that seemed to crack open her soul as she swerved past the Bludger James sent hurtling her way. She sped past James and flew straight up — high, high, higher. Monty supposed she was hovering at an exact angle that if she spun the Quaffle perfectly, it would curve and fly through the left goal post, and evidently her theory was correct. The Quaffle zoomed past James’ head, suddenly deviating from its previously straight course and went through the goal.

James let out a shocked guffaw, no doubt expecting Monty’s trick to fail spectacularly. He was playing several different roles, sliding easily between Beater, co-Chaser, Keeper, and even occasionally breaking away to chase after the Snitch that he’d accidentally set loose. Monty’s goal seemed to tear his loyalty between teammate and opponent, as he was caught between a grin and a grimace. 

“Bloody fantastic, Baird!” called James. “How’d you manage that?”

“Have you ever heard of baseball?” Monty shouted back.

“No!” he yelled with a sprawling smile. “You’ll have to teach it to me!”

It had been years since Monty had rode a bike, but she’d often heard the phrase “it’s like riding a bike” about being able to do something you hadn’t done in a while. Now, she couldn’t be certain that she’d be able to ride a bike with ease again, but she did know that her Quidditch skills had not gone away, or even diminished noticeably. In fact, in the time that she had stopped playing, she often recounted her old plays before falling asleep and ruminated on how she could have improved her game if she was able to go back.

Monty liked muggle science a great deal, and while she learned the basics of mechanics for her CD player, she’d also taken an interest in physics. She’d worked on the equations of a few Quidditch plays, but she’d never thought she would get the opportunity to put them into practice.

James and Monty finished their practice just as the sun began to rise, and the breeze slowly seeped into something close to warm. The sky burst into oranges, pinks, and reds, and very soon the dusky purple faded into the memory of the morning. Beads of sweat shimmered against James’ gold skin as he brushed the black curls away from his forehead. In the morning glow, he was nothing short of beautiful — Monty didn’t feel quite so guilty admitting it now — and well worthy of the acclaim the female population of Hogwarts often gave him.

She must have been staring, as James’ eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Alright, Baird?” he asked. She liked the way his mouth circled her name. “I didn’t miss you getting hit by a Bludger, did I?”

Monty laughed it off, ignoring the gymnastics routine on which her stomach insisted. “Shut up, Potter,” she replied, and she couldn’t stop the lopsided grin plastering itself on her lips. “But if I don’t eat soon, I’m going to gnaw my own arm off, and then where will the team be?”

* * *

Wherever Natalia had been in the past few days, it wasn’t anywhere near Monty. She’d expected it, to be completely candid, people often left when they saw the worst of her. 

In the Prefect Office, the Ravenclaw’s nose was all but pressed to the parchment of her sketchbook, and her pencil made rhythmic scratching. She must not have heard Monty come in, as she jumped and her pencil made a sharply unexpected movement across the page once Monty stood in front of her.

“Oh!” Natalia cried, and she frowned at her ruined drawing.

“Aw hell, I’m sorry,” said Monty, clutching her CD player with both arms. Her eyes were lowered to the ground, afraid to look at her friend. There was a long pause, an awkward silence that neither girl seemed particularly eager to break. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, no,” said Natalia, softly. “You’re fine.”

The Gryffindor nodded and set up shop on the small round table near the couches. Nuts and bolts tumbled onto the wooden table with varying clanks and clangs, and Monty scrambled to pile the pieces of the CD player together. She was nearly done with it, she was sure of it.

Natalia did not return to her sketch, but instead watched Monty from the corner of her eyes. In return, Monty eyed her carefully. There was something unplaceably different about the Ravenclaw — brighter. Her hair was no longer wavy, but distinctly curly in a way that suggested it was always meant to, and there was more color in her cheeks. She was starting to stray from her muted greys and soft blues, opting for jewel tones and this evening, a shimmering green top. Monty had seen that top before, she was certain, but she just didn’t know where.

Only she did know where, exactly where. She’d seen it on Mariana Caticovas last term — a new top she’d proudly gotten while shopping with her cousins in Mexico. In fact, this was the first time Monty had seen Natalia not attached to the hip of Mariana since her birthday, and it didn’t make sense. They were supposed to be enemies. Mariana did not like Monty, and Monty did not like Mariana, so that should have meant that Natalia did not like Mariana. 

But that wasn’t why Nat and Monty hadn’t spoken… no, not at all. It had to be because of the Valentine’s incident and nothing else.

“Are you scared of me?” Monty asked. She didn’t see any reason not to face it head on, and there were still remnants of the crackling electricity under her skin.

Natalia’s eyes widened, and her eyelids got obscured by her eyebrows lowering and sewing themselves together. “Why would you ask that?”

“I mean, I did almost hit everyone with lightning,” replied Monty, and even though the conversation was meant to be serious, she couldn’t help but feel a small bit proud of it. “I haven’t talked to you since then. I kind of figured that you’d be afraid of me.”

Natalia shook her head, a soft movement that seemed somewhat close to comforting. “I was afraid of the situation, sure,” she said, “not you. I thought you might have wanted a bit of space.”

“From you? Why?”

“Maybe,” said Natalia. She lowered her gaze to the couch in front of her, and the shadow of her eyelashes shrouded the blueness of her eyes. “I don’t know.”

Monty nodded, but she didn’t understand. There was a sadness, perhaps even a trace of jealousy, in Natalia’s posture, a slight inversion of the shoulders and minutely curled-up lip — the thing only a close friend would pick up on.  _ I bet Mariana Caticovas wouldn’t notice.  _ “I’m sorry that it didn’t work out with you and Sade,” Monty said, and she couldn’t help but feel a touch of irony. It didn’t work with Natalia and Sade, because it was working with Sade and Monty’s ex-boyfriend. Classic.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out with you and Nadim,” came Natalia’s gentle response, and yet it seemed lackluster. She was holding something in, and being Natalia, she was planning on keeping it there.

If it wasn’t fear, what could it be? Perhaps she simply just wanted nothing to do with the crazy girl who creates natural disasters when her emotions run unchecked. 

Monty always knew she was damaged goods, ever since she was a child, and even before her father’s death. She was called erratic, prone to melodrama, and no matter how much she tried to bottle up her feelings, they exploded at a boiling point. There was an on switch in her brain that someone else controlled — the darker part of her brain that came out to play whenever she most wished it wouldn’t.

Now Natalia wanted nothing to do with it.

“How’s uh,” Natalia spoke again, “how’s Greer? I see you’re getting on quite well again.” The twinge of jealousy was unmistakable, and greedily, Monty was grateful for it. 

“She’s good,” Monty replied with a bit of a smirk. “I think she and Roxanne will probably start dating before the month’s out, so… I probably won’t get much time to hang out with her pretty soon.”

“Oh that’s good,” said the Ravenclaw. “Well, I mean it is a pity that you won’t have as much time with her.”

Monty felt relief flood her body, a simple misunderstanding. That’s all, and she was more than equipped to handle that.

“But how’s Mariana, while we’re on the subject of friends?”

Natalia blushed a deep red and snapped her pencil back into her hand. She desperately tried to erase the long, harsh mark across her drawing in order to avoid Monty’s intense stare. Her blush spread across her face to her ears, and soon her entire body was flushed with a scarlet hue. “Merlin, will you stop staring at me?” she cried. “I have no idea what you’re insinuating.”

Monty’s jaw fell open just a tad, a surprised scoff escaping her throat. “You know, I thought you were jealous that I was hanging out with my old best friend, and I won’t lie, I was jealous of you hanging out so much with Mariana. Other than that, I wasn’t insinuating anything… until now.”

One of the crumpled and discarded pieces of sketching parchment began to flutter about, either from the movement of the fire or from the sheer nervous energy that radiated from Natalia’s body. “Stop!” She buried her face in her hands, and her legs bounced wildly. “This is so embarrassing.”

“You like her!”

Natalia shrieked with laughter. “Shut up!”

“But she’s so,” Monty sputtered, “so… Slytherin!”

“And what’s so bad about Slytherin?” retorted Natalia, and she peppered in a victorious smirk for good measure.

She’d said it before, and she’d say it again: Monty Baird had no issues with Slytherin house; she just didn’t feel that she lined up with their attributes. Then again, the thirst for power and significance that drove Nadim into the arms of Sade seemed to nudge Monty closer to confirmation that in the end, that’s all Slytherins were.

“Mariana’s so self-important and stand-offish,” said Monty, and she didn’t notice the irony that she was holding her nose up to the air as she said so.

Natalia did not react much beyond a roll of her eyes. “And you’re reckless and impulsive, and I’m asocial and meek. We all have imperfections, Monty. Besides, you don’t even know her.”

She thought she did know her. Monty thought she knew a lot of things about a lot of people, but now she wasn’t so sure. She thought Nadim was a well-mannered, kind boy who wouldn’t hurt her. She thought Sade was a devoted friend, one incapable of stabbing her in the back. 

See, everything looks one way and really is something else entirely. The houses at Hogwarts made sorting people into little boxes in a young witch’s mind so simple — Gryffindors were heroes; Ravenclaws were geniuses; Hufflepuffs were nurturers; Slytherins were corrupt. One needn’t analyze how ingraining a rigid structure of personality into generations of witches and wizards would warp the complexity of the individual. 

That must have been why deep, deep down, Monty always suspected that Nadim would choose someone else over her — this unconscious belief that all Slytherins would only keep their own best interest at heart. It didn’t matter that she was also struggling to make a choice. It didn’t matter if she was a hypocrite.

“You’re right,” Monty said. Natalia shook her head and blinked in shock. “I don’t know her well enough to make a judgment call. I’ll give her a chance, Nat, for you.”

Natalia shuffled her loose parchment papers into a pile next to her and set her sketchbook down beside it. She stood up, her knees cracking as she stretched out her body, and she made her way across the velveteen couches to sit in the wooden chair across the table from Monty. The Ravenclaw took one of the Gryffindor’s hands in her own, squeezing it tight and patting it with her free hand. Her soft features glowed in the light of the nearby fire, illuminating the sweetness of her smile. “That’s all I ask of you.”

“But you still have to admit that you were a little jealous of Greer hanging out with me.”

* * *

Rounds were back to normal, and that was okay. It was more than okay, actually; it was bloody fantastic.  _ Bloody? Really? Should I give up my passport while I’m at it?  _

Firelit corridors alongside the comforting presence of Lysander’s cheery disposition was enough to brighten up even Wednesday night rounds. It would back right up until the minute they had to go to the Astronomy Tower for class. If you had any work due Thursday morning, Merlin help you because you most definitely weren’t going to have any time to do it the night before.

Lugging her Astronomy textbook around the hallowed halls of Hogwarts Castle was never ideal, but Lysander had an extra special pep in their step that made the evening manageable.

“What’s got you all giddy?” asked Monty as the pair rounded the corner near the Battle of Hogwarts Portrait Hall. She had grown quite accustomed to having a partner on rounds now, and she wasn’t so sure she was ready to split up again. 

Lysander didn’t seem to mind sticking by her side, anyway. “The world’s magnificent, Mademoiselle Baird!”

“You know French?”

“No, I do not,” replied Lysander with a small circular swirl. “But everything’s been so great recently, I feel like I should know it. Maybe I’ll ask Louis to teach me next time I see him.”

There were two distinct sides of Lysander Scamander, Monty had learned: wry and snarky, or completely batshit nuts. Lysander tended towards the former, often keeping their guard up and ready to defend their fortress with a quick tongue. They were ruthless on the battlefield of wit.

When their heads were in the clouds, however, Lysander went about their days dreamily, seeming from the outside to be living in an alternate reality where everything was perfect. This Lysander appeared to be disconnected, and Monty always wondered if it was just as much of a defense mechanism. Nothing could hurt them in there — Lysander was untouchable up in space. 

“I take it things are going well with a certain someone,” said Monty, and she only allowed for her lips to upturn a smidge. 

Lysander sighed with a wide-spread grin. “He said he was proud of me for coming out — that he could always look to me to be unshakably myself. Then, he hugged me.”

She giggled along with them, and the dungeons didn’t seem quite so dark as they normally were. “Oh, to be in the embrace of Archie Wright’s rippling biceps.”

“They really do ripple, don’t they?”

Everyone was basking in the post Valentine’s glow — lounging in the sunlight of love’s rays, determined to gloat about it to every passerby. Monty never thought herself a bitter person, but as all of her darlingest of friends radiated with the passions of romance, she couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal. Why should everyone else get to love and be loved after what Nadim did to her?

Only she didn’t really love Nadim, now, did she?

_ Whatever! _

“Hey,” she started, suddenly, to stop her own brain spiraling. She needed to keep moving, keep talking, keep going or else she’d lose it. “Uh, hope this isn’t too personal, but why did you go to Kieran Gaiety to come out? I just thought it was a little… weird.”

Lysander’s bouncy step faltered for a moment, and they tutted in thought. “Well, it was originally James’ idea. I don’t think James has ever had a great idea that he didn’t mean as a joke first. But over winter holiday, I got a few more books on sexuality and gender from a muggle bookshop, and there was a lot of talk about social media. That’s a thing on their telephones, where — I suppose you already know about social media, though, huh? Well, I guess muggles will often come out on their social media, so that they can easily tell everyone they know about their identity. At the time, I thought that’d be convenient, but the more I thought about James’ joke, the more I realized that Kieran Gaiety is basically a wizard, uh, Tweeter?”

“Twitter,” Monty laughed. “That’s fair enough. I hadn’t thought about that before. Nice to know Kieran Gaiety’s big mouth is good for something.”

“Kieran Gaiety’s a good man, Monty.”

Of course he was, apparently everyone was these days. Left and right, Monty was misjudging the character of every person that so much as passed by her. Not everything was as it seemed, she supposed.

* * *

Monty hadn’t a moment’s rest since the Valentine’s Ball, and by the end of the following, she felt her electricity fade into the rearview: Monty Baird was losing juice. She knew that with that decline in spirits, a freefall was imminent, and all of the progress she made during the week would fall to the wayside. So she was caught between allowing herself rest, but risking the lowest of lows, or pressing on with as much power and speed as she could manage, but ensuring that her flame would completely burn out.

Neither option was ideal, and she’d really rather have liked not to choose at all. She longed for the happy medium, the neither here nor there brand of existence that would allow for her to simply coast through the rest of time with not much of a care left in the world.

Instead, she had to slog through her Charms private lesson for what felt like the billionth time this week. Her head was cloudy, and her colors of her spells were reflecting it, turning milky and lacking in any strength of power — at least not the power she was used to wielding. In fact, Monty was beginning to worry that she had wasted all of her magic in one fell swoop with the lightning.

“I think that about does it for our lesson today, Miss Baird,” Professor Flitwick said, and he lightly massaged his temples with his fingers. The small wizard hopped into the chair behind his desk, stowing his wand away into a drawer. Monty, however, did not make any movement to leave, to which Flitwick tilted his head curiously. “You’re more than welcome to enjoy the rest of your free period, Miss Baird. Unless there is something else you’d rather talk about.”

Monty shook her head quickly, a stray strand of hair catching on her lips. Could an act be a lie? Of course there was something she’d like to talk about. There were several things she’d like to talk about, starting with Flitwick cutting her private lesson over fifteen minutes short. She felt fairly certain that it was bad form to complain about the condensed length of free multi-weekly lessons with the Charms Master. It was probably best for her to leave and hope for a clearer mind next go around, but the itch in her brain whispered that she’d be failing him if she left now. “Actually I do have something I’d like to talk about, sir, if that’s alright.”

He motioned for her to sit down in the chair in front of the tall desk. As she lowered herself into the seat she’d been in many times before, she marveled at the forced perspective. Monty had always been a tall girl, but on the other side of Flitwick’s desk, she felt tiny — a beggar at the foot of a throne.

Flitwick’s expression was soft and his tone comforting as he said, “If it’s about your performance in your lesson today, I assure you it’s perfectly normal to have an off day.”

“I wouldn’t be able to afford having an ‘off day’ in a duel, Professor,” replied Monty.

“Do you plan to find yourself in battle sometime soon?”

Monty huffed. “The world isn’t always going to be safe,” she said, her temperature rising. “It’s not safe now, and I’m not sure it ever was.”

Flitwick pushed up his small, round glasses and hummed to himself. He did not meet her eye, but rather stared off into the distant space. The professor’s bushy eyebrows blended together in a forced convergence — the muscles of his face bulging in strain. “I see,” he said, softly. “The Board of Governors don’t want me to say as much, but I have to agree with you. There’s plenty to be worried about now. I don’t know a student quite so involved in current affairs as you, Miss Baird. Except perhaps Miss Granger-Weasley, of course.

“I think you’re more than right to be prepared. You know your history. However, you wouldn’t be much use on any battlefield — physical or otherwise — if you work yourself into a state of exhaustion. It’s perfectly good and well to give yourself a break; soon you won’t have the opportunity with O.W.L.s coming up.”

Brown waves broke aggressive tide against her shoulders as she vehemently shook her head. She couldn’t take a break, simply could not. She was afraid to be alone with her thoughts right now, with the haunting silhouette of darkness lurking behind her, edging forward every moment she was unoccupied. “I have to keep working.”

“You won’t be doing your best work if you’re too tired to focus.” 

“Professor,” Monty said, voice trembling. “I’m afraid I might have used all of my power on accident.”

His expression grew more curious. “What makes you think that?”

She felt her cheeks redden, and she looked down at her hands as they wrung and writhed. “I caused a lightning storm on the Quidditch Pitch last Friday,” she said. “I— I was so angry, and hurt, and scared, and so many people were yelling things at me that I couldn’t hear or understand. My head was so, so loud, and then I heard it. It was a crackling, and it grew into more of a rumbling. Before I knew what was happening, I got these goosebumps all over my arm and, well, lightning struck.”

Flitwick chuckled and stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Ah yes,” he said. “I heard about that.”

“You did?”

“Yes, Miss Baird,” Flitwick said with a knowing smirk. “The one thing you should know about being a professor at this school is that it is nearly impossible to avoid hearing about every bit of juicy student drama.”

A bit of her pain wilted and fell away — the load was growing lighter. “I’d think everyone would want to be a professor, then.”

“I would only give my position to someone I believed in with every bit of my soul,” Flitwick said, and for a second, Monty swore she caught a peculiar glimmer in his eyes. 

What would Hogwarts even look like without Filius Flitwick? For a small man, his shoes would be an endlessly massive space to fill. One could be certain it could not be done. Maybe he’d even have to teach as a ghost, like Binns.

“Has there ever been a student you’d trust to fill it, sir?”

There was a gentle silence, the kind that was instantly swept up in a state of emotion, and Flitwick’s eyes glazed over with a dreamy melancholy. He’d been a professor so long, lived through so many battles, watched so many students drop like flies at the wands of adversaries. It was not unlikely that his favorite pupils of days past may have met bitter, bloody ends. All the while, Filius Flitwick was left in classrooms 99 and 2E, looking out at fresh faces that might be destined for the worst. 

“Yes,” said Flitwick, finally, hushed. “There have been a few, so many of them heroes. From all houses, too, and varying ancestries. Your uncle was one in which I saw a great deal of potential — brilliant boy, just brilliant Phillip was. 

“But there was one student — from so long ago now — that I was so hoping would take over for me when I retired. Horace and I would always argue if she’d become Potions or Charms Master. Secretly, I think she would have rather been Potions Master, but don’t tell Professor Slughorn that. His head might grow a size, and he’d topple right over — I think he’s a bit too old to get up himself after a fall like that.

“This girl was no stranger to bursts of emotional magic, not unlike yourself. I remember once passing by the Defense classroom — must have been her fifth or sixth year — and she got so heated in a duel with another student that all of the torches and lamps in the room exploded, singed the poor boy's eyebrows clean off. The whole class had to evacuate; they couldn’t put it out. When she focused, though, her spellwork was unlike anything I’d seen, as if her wand was a natural extension of her arm. After her, I was sure I’d never meet a more qualified successor.”

The anguish in his eyes spoke monologues: the poor girl was dead. She knew that look; it was in the eyes of all of the professors at one time or another. The faces of the students constantly turned over in the wheels of time and progress, but surely it was an impossible feat to escape the memory of students passed. To be so entrenched in the lives of your students, only to lose them, must have been a terrible burden.

Flitwick stared out past Monty’s head to the long wooden desks of the students. In them, she knew that hundreds of years of witches and wizards had sat there, bright and starry-eyed. She’d seen carved initials living forever atop desks — students that loved, that lost, that have gone on to better or worse things, students whose legacies sit in those same seats now, no longer knowing the names of those that got them there. One day, Monty was going to be nothing more than a memory in the eyes of a professor’s melancholic gaze. One day, all of her friends would be just that.

“Do you think you’ll find her equal some day?” Monty asked. Her voice echoed back to her, sounding so small, almost childlike. 

The Charms Master’s gaze fixated back onto Monty, calm and steady, and a pleasant smile spread across his face. He nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure I will, Miss Baird,” he said with a small sniffle, and he rose from his tall chair to meet her on level ground. Monty, too, rose to her feet, knowing that they had now exceeded their lesson time. “Thank you for talking with me, Monty. Now, please go take the weekend to recuperate.”

Out in the corridor, with students buzzing past with conversation and activity, Monty was unsure if she felt much better, or if she had finally succumbed to the gravity of her fatigue. All that she knew was that she had to let herself rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, my friends! As always, I would very much appreciate any comments or kudos that you may feel compelled to throw my way. I'll see you for the next chapter!


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